Bonded and Broken
by Disneymagic
Summary: Dean is 10 and Sammy is 6 until his brother needs his help and the Wish transforms him into a 24 year old. Dad comes home from a hunt and something is…wrong. Once more it's up to adult Sam to protect young Dean from danger.  Third in the Wish 'verse.
1. Hawkman is Totally Cool

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! This is the third story in the 'Wish 'verse. I recommend reading at least the first story before you read this one as this is an AU and it may be difficult to follow if you don't get the background. In summary: Young Sammy's wish to be a grown up whenever his big brother, Dean, needs help gets granted by a well-meaning gypsy. The unexpected consequences of the wish cause an unbreakable bond to develop between the brothers. A magical creature, the black imp, attempts to take the wish away from the boys, but is thwarted by John who is then cursed by the imp to forever be in pain when his sons are nearby.**

**In this installment ****Dean is 10 and Sammy is 6 until his brother needs his help and the Wish transforms him into a 24 year old. Dad comes home from a hunt and something is…wrong. Once more it's up to adult Sam to protect young Dean from danger and this time he can't count on John for back-up.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 1 Hawkman is Totally Cool**

Squinting through the leaves of the tree he's using as cover, John quickly spies his quarry. A frigid wind blows and his breath puffs out in a cloud of vapor. October has no right to be this cold.

It's ghouls, the things he's hunting. Not much of a surprise considering their MO is so distinctive – the desecrated grave sites, the missing bodies, the gory mess left behind. John had been pretty sure he knew what was causing the uproar in the small town of Chinook in upstate Montana and now he has visual proof.

John's obviously not a fan of the cadaver-consuming creatures, but normally they're not too much of a problem. After all, they usually leave the living alone and focus their attention on the already dead. Also, ghouls are not particularly strong, nor are they particularly fast; they don't have poisonous stingers or sharp claws. In other words, they're generally easy game for any hunter worth his salt.

Which is why he is taken a little off guard by the three ghouls that step out of the shadows behind him at the same time as four more join the two he had already spotted leaving the open mausoleum with a decaying body carried between them. The sheer number of ghouls all in one place at the same time and apparently working together stuns John for a moment. Ghouls aren't known for their complex social hierarchies. They do live in family units, sure, you might find two sometimes three of them together at any one time, but this…nine of the disgusting creatures all working towards a common goal, well it's not something he was anticipating.

Still, he's able to take two of them down before he's overwhelmed by the remaining seven. His shotgun comes around to bear on one last female ghoul. The spray of blood from the hole in her head douses his face in crimson and all John can think about as the weight of the horde of ghouls crushes him to the ground is the two boys he left in the motel room this morning on the outskirts of town.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"When's dad coming back?" Sammy asks, probably for the tenth time that day and he feels Dean's growing frustration, but he can't help it. He's bored.

Dean sighs, doesn't even look up from his Auto World magazine. "Dad'll be back when he's back. He didn't say when to expect him. You know that already."

Yeah, he knows. Sammy swings his feet hard enough to kick the aluminum legs of the chair next to the one he's sitting in. It makes a satisfying metallic ringing sound so he kicks both legs faster, creating a beautiful melody. Dean seems to have other ideas.

"Cut it out, squirt." Dean grunts, flopping over onto his stomach on the bed with his head cradled in his crossed arms and the magazine resting on the pillow in front of him. The pages of the magazine are crumpled and tattered. It's the same one Dean's been reading for the last two days, ever since dad dropped them off at this motel and told them to 'take care of each other' and that he'd be back to get them as soon as he could.

Dad always used to say, 'Dean, take care of your brother.' His standard parting order has now changed to 'take care of each other' in deference to Sam's Wish, the one that transforms him into a grown up whenever Dean needs help. Sam thinks the new order is good, much better than the old one, because it makes him feel responsible and he likes helping his big brother. He wants Dean to let him do more stuff for him and now things feel a little more equal between them. Sam like for things to be fair.

He wishes there was something he could do right now. Anything at all, he's not picky. There are only so many things to do in a motel room though and Sammy has officially exhausted every last one of them. It's boring here. He's bored. Bored, bored, bored.

Dean won't even let him go outside to play. Not since he caught the creepy, stringy-haired man in the unit next to theirs watching them so intently, the look in his eyes greedy and apprising. Even though Sammy had asked the older boy why the man was watching them, Dean had just pursed his lips together tightly and locked the deadbolt on their motel room door.

Their room is on the second floor, the stairs to reach it are on the outside of the long brick building. A concrete walkway wrapping around the entire exterior provides access to all the rooms on the second floor. Sammy can think of at least five different games they could play on that walkway, but no, instead they have to stay locked up in the confining room with the stale air and the orange drapes and the matching orange bedspreads. Stupid stringy-haired man.

They have a hot plate and enough food in their room to last several days; cans of pasta with meat sauce, boxes of cereal, bags of chips, and bottles of apple juice because they don't need to be refrigerated, unlike milk. Provisions – Dean calls them and Sammy likes the way the word makes it sound as if they're on an adventure, maybe sailing unchartered seas or trekking across the wilds of Australia. He'd learned about Australia in school last month and he's a little obsessed with it. Kangaroos and koala bears are his new favorite animals.

First grade is really good, even better than kindergarten. He has two friends already, even though it's only October and school just started in September. Their names are Annie and Brett. He sits with them at lunch and they always play together at recess, usually tag or some game they make up on the spot that involves running and capturing and dodging and a home base of one kind or another. He likes them a lot, they're good friends, but neither of them is his best friend. That'll always be Dean.

Crawling onto the bed, Sammy leans against his brother's side and digs his pointy little elbow into the small of the older boy's back. "Dean, do you think we'll get back in time for school on Monday?" His class is going on a field trip to visit a fire station on Monday and he's been looking forward to it. This is the first time in two years that their dad has taken them with him on a hunt and Sammy's not sure why this time is different but he's ready to get back to their apartment, his school, and his friends.

"Ow, Sammy! How many times do I have to tell you your elbows are sharp?" Dean grumbles, rubbing the sore spot. "I don't know when we're going to get back. It kind of depends on when dad gets here, doesn't it?"

"Sorry Dean, sorry. I didn't mean to." Sammy hangs his head and looks up at his brother through a tangle of bangs. At six years old he already knows what affect that look has on his big brother. He tries not to take advantage of it too much. Only when he absolutely has to.

Dean huffs and rolls his eyes. "It's alright, just be careful with your lethal elbows of doom. Jeez, you're gonna kill me with those things one day."

The teasing sparkle in Dean's eye makes Sammy laugh and the affection rippling along their bond warms him up on the inside. Careful to tuck his elbows close to his sides, Sam lays down with his head on the same pillow as Dean's magazine so he can see his brother's face. "Why do you think dad brought us with him this time?"

Dean's shoulders twitch up in a shrug, the corners of his mouth turn down. The older boy looks tired all of a sudden and that doesn't make any sense to Sammy. They've been sitting around inside this room all day long so there's no reason at all to be tired. "I dunno Sammy. Could be he misses us. He's been leaving us by ourselves in the apartment for longer and longer. Seems like each time he goes on a new hunt he goes farther and farther away. Maybe he just wanted us nearby this time. I dunno," he repeats with a slight shake of his head.

The room is chilly, the heater not quite able to keep up with the drop in temperature the area is experiencing. Sammy tucks his socked feet under his brother's ribs to warm them up and pretends he doesn't notice Dean wrinkle his nose. Since his feet don't get pushed away he smiles serenely. "Halloween is next week and Brett says he's gonna dress up like Batman. He says I should be Robin." A scowl forms on Sammy's face. "But I don't want to be Robin. Robin's not cool like Batman, right Dean? Do you think Robin's cool?" Sam pauses and waits for his brother's opinion because Dean is the utmost authority on all things cool as far as Sammy is concerned.

Chuckling, Dean shakes his head. "Robin's named after a bird. How cool can he possibly be? I mean he's not even named after a cool bird like a hawk. Hawks are cool, Hawkman is totally cool, but Robin…" The older boy shakes his head again. "Not so much."

"That's what I told Brett." Sammy grins at the vindication. "And then Annie said she's gonna dress up as a clown." An involuntary shudder shakes him from head to toe. Clowns are creepier than the stringy-haired guy next door, with their white faces and blood red lips. They always look so sinister to him and it doesn't matter how many times Dean tells him clowns are just people wearing makeup and wigs, he still can't stand to be in the same room with one. He knows clowns are just people. He knows that.

"A clown, huh?" His brother pats his leg consolingly. "So what do you want to dress up as?"

Any costume Sam is going to get will be homemade. There's no chance of a store bought costume and Sam understands that just as he understands that Dean has never dressed up for Halloween, at least not in Sammy's memory and he's pretty sure he would remember his brother in a costume. In fact, the only reason Sammy even knows that Halloween means costumes and candy is from his school friends. But Dean seems to be enjoying the conversation and there's nothing else to do so Sammy continues. "Well, I was thinking I could be Superman." He says, voice rising excitedly. "All I'd need is a red cape and I could wear my blue shirt and put a big 'S' on it."

"Yeah, and tights. We'd have to get you some tights from the little girl section of the Salvation Army." Dean smirks and then ducks his head when Sammy throws the spare pillow at him. "Hey, hey careful of the merchandise." He cackles.

Sammy tries to pout for all of two seconds but can't maintain the sour expression when Dean starts up the tickle wars.

After that they eat dinner and watch some TV. It's already dark outside when they hear the key in the lock.

Dean gingerly slips off the bed and Sammy can feel his big brother's annoyance at the bedsprings which squeak despite his caution. He pads softly to the door, stands on his tiptoes to peek through the eyehole. The older boy must be satisfied with what he sees because he steps back and smiles in welcome as the door opens.

"Hey dad…" The words die before they are completely formed and out of his mouth and Sammy's jaw drops as their father shuffles into the room, oblivious of the salt line he has just scattered everywhere. Dad would never disrupt a salt line, it's too much ingrained habit to step over them and after all the times the man has pounded it into his sons' heads Sammy can't imagine their dad slipping up like that unless there is something wrong.

Their dad's head swivels, looking first at Dean who's still standing near the open door, back straight with undisguised tension, and then to Sammy who is sitting cross-legged on the bed. A feral glint, ripe with malice, appears in the hunter's eyes, much worse than the look of shrewd longing stringy-haired man had leveled at them.

"Hello boys."

To be continued.

**A/N: I have a nephew who used to be afraid of anyone dressed up in a mascot costume. Disneyworld was an absolute nightmare for him with all the Disney characters running around. He used to say he knew they were just people dressed up in costumes, but he was still terrified of them. I imagine he understands how Sammy feels about clowns.**

**Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Reviews are cherished.**


	2. It's a Matter of Heart

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading!**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 2 It's a Matter of Heart**

Dean's eyes are glued to the large workman's boot and the scattered salt line, riveted to that one spot, and he has to forcefully peel his gaze away to look up, up, up past the muddy denim clad legs, past the well-worn leather jacket, until he finally reaches his father's face. He takes a moment to study the features carefully because something feels wrong. It's nothing he can put his finger on, nothing overt. Everything just seems the tiniest bit south of familiar, just one degree off.

"Are you alright, dad?" Dean asks and instinctively moves sideways to block Sammy from his father's line of vision. The protectiveness that wells up inside of him isn't something he questions. It's automatic, primal, hard wired into his very being. Even though the urge to ward off danger has never manifested with his own father as the threat before, Dean doesn't fight his instincts.

Pushing outward along the invisible strand of his bond with his brother, Dean thinks as hard as he can about_ staying still, keeping quiet_, and _blending in_. Sammy can't read his thoughts, their bond doesn't work that way, but they've been working on developing a system of silent communication using the bond and their ability to sense each other's emotions. They've had about a year to practice, a year since the empathic abilities first became apparent and in that time they've found certain emotions they can interpret to mean different things. Slight variations of one emotion or another can be manipulated and combined with other emotions, turning them into their own secret language. So right now Dean is projecting a combination of caution mixed with patience and a little bit of fear and hoping that Sam gets the message.

"Yeah, I'm doing just fine, boy, just fine. Have you been behaving yourselves? Keeping out of trouble?" A smile twitches at the corners of their dad's lips before he closes the motel room door behind him.

The sound of the door snicking shut makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and when Dean opens the inner gate to his brother's emotions he is flooded with a mirroring unease and a vague warning, _be careful_. Without looking at the small boy sitting on the bed behind him, Dean gives a tight nod in response to the warning and then answers their father, "Yes, sir."

"Good, that's good. I'm glad to hear it." The hunter strides over to the window, flicks the ugly drapes aside briefly to glance outside, and runs a finger through the salt on the window sill. "Huh." He says thoughtfully.

"Are you hungry? I can heat you up something." Dean indicates the hot plate and the stack of aluminum cans where they sit on the floor next to the door to the bathroom as though his dad might not remember having stacked them there when they checked into the room two days ago. Maybe if he acts like this is any other time his dad has returned from a hunt it'll start to feel normal and everything will be okay, dad will be alright.

"No, not quite yet. There's something I need to talk to you boys about first. Something I need your help with."

And then his dad is standing next to him, pulling him into a tight hug and Dean can't remember the last time his dad stood close enough to touch him, much less give him a hug. He looks up into the man's face expecting to see the customary tension lines furrowed across his brows, the ones that always appear whenever he's in the same room with either of his sons, but instead he's met with a beaming smile. An ache of longing settles in the pit of his stomach because he wants this, has wanted this for so long. Yet now that he has a fleeting taste of his father's affection, it feels tainted somehow. Swallowing the lump in his throat, Dean asks, "Talk to us about what?"

His father gives his shoulder a final squeeze and then sits on the edge of Sammy's bed, ruffles the smaller boy's hair. "I've stumbled across something here, something big. A gathering of…well, I'm not sure what yet, but I'm closing in on them. Halloween is next week, six days from today, and everything points to that day as being important to this gathering."

Sammy squirms away from their dad and off the bed, distrustful and wary. He slides up to Dean while keeping both eyes glued on John, pressing into his brother's side like a baby koala bear clinging to its mother. Dean's not sure if his own emotions are feeding Sammy's anxiety or if Sammy is picking up the same bad vibes he is from their father. Either way, the warmth of the younger boy at his side is a steadying pressure and even makes up for the fact that his little brother's fixation with Australian animals seems to be rubbing off on him.

Their dad leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees, regarding his sons with an amused tilt of his head. "So, I'll need to stick around, look into this gathering and see what needs to be done, but I don't want you boys nearby. I'm going to move you to another location. Somewhere no one can find you, somewhere you'll be safe."

"Why can't we just stay here?" Sammy asks boldly, never one for taking anything on blind faith, always wanting to know why.

"I just told you," John squints in annoyance. "I'm afraid they'll find you here. We need to do a better job of hiding you, make sure they can't follow my trail."

"Who's going to find us?" The steely set to Sammy's jaw reminds Dean of Sam when he's all grown up. A quick double take confirms that his brother is still only six years old.

"I don't know yet. Haven't you been listening?" Their dad rubs a hand along his scruffy chin and takes a deep breath, letting it out in a loud huff. "We'll leave here in the morning. I'll find a place to stash you while I do my thing…hunting." At this last bit the man grimaces and then continues. "Before I go I need to know you're going to be able to defend yourselves if necessary, or at least be able to outrun anything that comes after you. I have to know what you're capable of."

Confused, Dean shifts from foot to foot, balancing restlessly. "What we're capable of? You know what we can do, dad. You train us all the time."

"I know about your training, I'm thinking of something a little different. A contest. Nothing fancy, just a good old fashioned, one-on-one trial to see which one of you is the better man." Their dad grins as though he expects his sons to be pleased with his idea to pit them against each other.

Pleased is the very last thing Dean feels at the idea. The way Sammy stiffens and clutches him tighter speaks volumes about how the smaller boy is taking the news and Dean doesn't even have to open himself up to his brother's emotions to catch the drift.

Usually dad stresses team work, taking care of each other, and watching each other's backs. This is different and Dean doesn't like it. Even though he wants to rebel, he decides to stay quiet and hear his dad out. He puts his hand flat on the small of his brother's back where his dad can't see and pushes out a sense of calm acceptance. _Easy, squirt_. Sammy relaxes under his palm.

It's hard finding the emotions inside himself sometimes, finding the calm when mostly what he feels is agitated and jumpy. He has to actually feel the emotions, not just want to feel them. There's a trick to it and it only lasts a fraction of a second. All his real emotions are still there and he has to dig deep to find the ones he wants to push to Sammy. It's a lot like pretending which he's very good at, only he has to fool himself and that's not exactly a walk in the park.

Dad's gaze wanders around the room as though he's searching for something in particular. He taps his blunt fingertips on the bedside table and turns to look back at the door leading to the wraparound walkway. "I got it! We'll have a race. A little healthy competition to let me know what I'm working with here." Their father stands up and rubs his hands together, a satisfied expression on his face. "First one to make it around the building wins. We can even throw in the stairs to make things interesting. Okay, so around the building, down the stairs and back up. Winner gets to go inside and get a good night's sleep while the loser continues to practice until I'm satisfied that he's improved."

Dean stares at his father in disbelief. He can't figure out what the man is up to. It's ridiculous. There's no question who will win in a race between him and Sammy and they all know it. "But dad, Sammy's a lot smaller than I am, we should give him a head start."

"No buts. It's going to be a serious race with no quarter given. Sammy will just have to try harder if he wants to win, otherwise he's going to be spending a lot of time out here getting to know those stairs real well." A mean little sneer appears and then vanishes so quickly that Dean's not sure whether he really saw the downward twist of his father's lips or whether he just imagined it.

Sammy reaches the door first, eager to get outside and stretch his legs. Poor kid probably thinks this is some kind of fun game. Dean knows his brother has been bored all day long and has wanted a chance to play out on the walkway.

A winter-like blast of frigid air blows into the room as soon as the smaller boy gets the door open and he stops on the threshold. "It's cold. We'll need our coats." He says and starts to close the door.

"Coats will only slow you down. You'll need every advantage you can get if you want to win." Their dad steps up behind Sammy and pushes the small boy out the door.

Sammy stumbles forward a few steps before catching his balance again and a shot of anger surges through Dean. That push had been unnecessarily hard and without thinking Dean says, "Hey!"

"You have something you want to say to me, boy?"

The authority in his dad's voice stops Dean in his tracks. It's second nature to obey that voice even though he feels like he's getting whiplash from his father's mood swings. "No sir."

Floodlights on the side of the building provide plenty of light. Tiny white moths bash themselves against the glowing bulbs repeatedly. Dean thinks that this race makes about as much sense as a moth's fruitless quest to get as close to a light bulb as it possibly can. In other words, not a lot.

The two boys take their mark at their father's call and take off as soon as he yells 'GO'. They race down the straight path to their father's shouts of encouragement. Dean paces Sammy, making sure not to get in front of the smaller boy. As much as he hates the idea of their dad not thinking he's good enough, not capable of taking care of himself and Sammy, there's no way he's letting Sammy get punished for losing this stupid race. He hopes his dad will understand.

Once they reach the first bend Dean slows down even more. "Keep going Sammy. Run. You can do it." He cheers.

Sammy looks back at him, dimples denting his cheeks in a big grin. The little boy is enjoying the heck out of this race after being cooped up in the motel room for so long. All talk of winners and losers and consequences seems to have gone right over the younger boy's head and he runs as if he hadn't a care in the world, wild and free, pure joy streaming off him.

Dean can't help but smile back and let the joyful emotion wash over him.

They continue like that through three more turns and by the time their father comes into sight again as they round the building Dean has allowed the gap between them to grow substantially. Sammy reaches the stairs and begins to scamper down as quickly as his shorter legs will take him, turns at the bottom and scampers back up. Dean jogs along behind him maintaining the distance.

John joins them at the head of the steps and greets Sammy with a tight smile. "Good job, Sammy. You can go on into the room now."

"What about Dean? He did a good job too, right?" The younger boy asks, a worried frown suddenly replacing his bright grin when he catches sight of the storm clouds gathering on his father's face.

"I think Dean has a little more work to do." John's displeasure is clear in his clipped tone.

Dean squares his shoulders and takes a breath, getting ready for whatever might be coming his way while at the same time thanking his lucky stars because while his dad is obviously angry, at least his plan worked and Sammy isn't being punished.

Sammy's frown deepens and Dean can see the wheels turning inside his brother's head. The exact moment when Sammy seems to get what's about to happen is apparent when he begins to violently shake his head. "No, Dean should come inside too."

Although he means well, Sammy is about to make matters worse by disobeying. He dares not say anything out loud just in case their dad thinks he's being disrespectful, so Dean pushes a combination of acceptance and gratitude and optimism through their connection to his brother. _It's alright, go._

One of the lower level motel room doors opens. The soft murmur of voices drifts up to where all three Winchesters are standing, quietly watching one another. Once the voices fade away, Sammy sends one more piercing look at their dad and then stomps back into the room. The threat in the boy's gaze seems to go unheeded as John's focus swings back to Dean.

"That was by far the most unimpressive race I have ever seen." John's low voice throbs with menace. "What message were you trying to send me there, Dean? That you don't care? That you don't find my instructions important? 'Cause let me tell you something – by the end of the night – I think you're going to care. I think you're going to care a whole lot."

Dean knows better than to doubt the truth of his father's words. He moistens his lower lip with a suddenly dry tongue and waits patiently to hear his penance.

"So, we'll start off with some sprints up and down the stairs and I don't want to see any of that lazy jogging you just inflicted on me. You run. I mean RUN, as fast as you can and don't you stop until I say you're done!"

Nodding his understanding, Dean turns and barrels down the stairs, devoting everything he has to the effort, determined to prove just how much he really does care. When he reaches the bottom he starts back up again taking the stairs two at a time.

"Again, keep going." John growls.

By the time he's gone down and up ten times his calves and thighs have started to burn. He keeps his head down and lets the world around him dissolve. The concrete stairs are no more than a blur of grey and shadow. After a while, his body is generating so much heat that he doesn't even feel the chill wind blowing anymore.

And that's when his dad starts talking again. Or really more like heckling.

"Is that the best you can do? You really are worthless aren't you? I'm not even sure why I keep you around."

The words are like a physical blow, punching the air out of his burning lungs. Surely his dad can't mean what he said. He must just be trying a new tactic to get Dean to run faster. Dean obliges with a new burst of speed.

"Now that brother of yours is a different story…he's a keeper. He may not be as fast as you or as strong as you, but he's got a lot more heart and a lot more vitality than you'll ever have. That other stuff will come in time, he'll grow to be fast and strong and then he'll be perfect. Then you'll only get in his way."

A droplet of sweat trickles down his brow and into the corner of his eye. It stings, which is the only reason his eyes begin to water.

"Are those tears? Oh no, no, no, no. Please don't tell me you're not only lazy and stupid but a cry baby too." His father taunts.

"No sir." Dean swipes the back of his hand across his eyes and keeps climbing.

He has trained in endurance since he was seven years old, but by the time he's gone down and up that same flight of stairs twenty-five times his legs are starting to quiver, muscle fatigue setting in. Even though his breath is coming in painful bursts and his lungs feel like they're about to explode, he refuses to slow down or show he's tiring.

His dad shows no sign of calling a stop to the training exercise.

After that Dean loses count of the number of times he's gone down and up. His legs are like lead weights and his heart is pounding. It's possible that his dad is still yelling at him, questioning his loyalty, his devotion, his work ethic, his intelligence. It's possible, but Dean's not sure because he stopped listening long ago, the sound of blood pumping in his ears too loud to let any other noise through. All he knows it that he has to keep going. There is no stopping, no resting and no quarter will be given, no mercy granted. He's on a forced march and he's so tired, so very, very tired.

When he absolutely cannot face going down the stairs one more time he comes to a halt in front of his dad, arms hanging lifelessly at his sides and panting heavily. John steps right into his space leaving barely two inches between them.

"Did I tell you to stop? Because I don't remember saying you were done yet."

"I can't dad. Please." Dean pleads, shoulders slumping.

Fury twists his dad's lips into a disturbing sneer and that's the last thing Dean sees before he's flying backwards through the air.

Falling down a flight of stairs isn't anything like how he had imagined it. Not that he'd spent a lot of time fantasizing about falling down stairs, but still. He'd thought it would happen so fast there would be no time to even realize he was falling, just a thump and a thud and he'd be at the bottom. In reality, it feels like he's falling in slow motion.

He feels his father's hands connect with his chest, feels the shove and the backward momentum. The hand rail is to his right. He tries to catch his balance by grabbing onto it, but his arms won't move the way he wants them to. Too clumsy, add that to the list of his failures, he thinks morosely.

Somehow there's plenty of time for him to try to determine the best landing position to minimize injuries. By tucking his head and rolling into as much of a ball as he can he hopes to protect his most vulnerable body parts. Unfortunately, this only serves to speed up his downward velocity and soon he's tumbling down the stairs completely out of control.

The impact of his leg with one of the steps at a bad angle causes a flare of raw agony to erupt from his ankle to his knee, driving all other thoughts from his mind. The remainder of his fall is punctuated with jolts of pain to his back, his hip and his shoulder.

He's a bit hazy on what happens next. He opens his eyes to the sensation of his dad's hands fisted in the front of his shirt, hauling him to his feet. The hot pulse of injured joints, torn ligaments, or broken bones, and maybe all three, makes putting any weight at all on his left leg impossible. He cries out and crumples forward, his father's hold on his shirt the only thing keeping him vertical.

The door to their motel room crashes open and Sam is standing there, backlit by the lamps inside the room so that he appears to have a heavenly aura. He's a full fledged adult, all 6'4" of lean muscle and from the look on his face he's pissed off. Dean only has a second to wonder why Sam is all grown up, what kind of danger might be lurking about, before he sees the flash of reflected light off metal. A gun. Sam is holding their dad's Glock at the ready, finger on the trigger. He's not joking around.

"Get away from him. Let him go and back away." Sam is seething, his voice contains barely controlled rage. The gun points directly at their father's head. "Back. Off."

John releases his grip on Dean's shirt, holding his hands out to the side in the universal gesture for unarmed and defenseless. Dean promptly collapses without the support and doesn't see how, but the next thing he knows Sam is kneeling in front of him, gun still trained on John who has moved to the opposite side of the motel parking lot.

"Sam-my." The gutted sound of his own voice makes Dean want to cringe. "What…" He doesn't finish the question because there are too many things he doesn't understand and his head is spinning dangerously.

Sam loops one arm around his waist. "Hold onto me, Dean." He says and then lifts Dean off the ground and holds him against his chest.

It's been a while since Dean's been carried and he thinks he's most likely too old and too big for this kind of treatment. At the moment though, he feels so empty, like his insides have been scooped out leaving nothing more than a fragile shell behind. In a desolate fog he holds onto his brother and watches listlessly as his father retreats to the motel room.

"You can run, but you can't hide from me." The man calls out from the relative safety of the threshold. "I'll find you when you least expect it and you'll wish you'd never been born."

The last spark of Dean's spirit sputters and dies.

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Reviews are cherished.**


	3. Trains and Adventures

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading!**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 3 Trains and Adventures**

Paralyzed by uncertainty, Sam takes a moment to get his bearings. He has to make some pretty heavy decisions like what to do about Dean's injuries, what to do about their 'dad' or what is currently posing as their dad, and where to go from here. One thing is perfectly clear, there's something terribly wrong with their father and until he finds out what he's not letting the man get anywhere near Dean. The fact that the man (thing?) has disappeared into their motel room without causing any further damage is a blessing and Sam is immensely thankful for the opportunity to fall back and regroup.

A family of four is cowering in their minivan and the motel desk clerk is staring at him through the big plate glass window of the lobby with the phone to his ear, making one-handed sweeping gestures that resemble a mad-man aiming a gun at a flock of birds. The police will undoubtedly be here soon. The stringy-haired guy from the unit next to theirs is leaning against his door frame like he's not sure whether to stick around for more entertainment or take off before trouble arrives.

Sam guesses he could have been a little more discrete, maybe not yelled quite so loudly or not waved the gun around quite so menacingly, but - honestly - discretion hadn't been his top priority. Of course his top priority had been his brother, getting Dean out of the hands of the demented person who looked a lot like their dad and had been shaking the boy so hard it looked like his neck was about to snap. No matter what faults their father is guilty of, and he has a fair few, he's never shown that much violence towards his own sons before.

As soon as his Wish had transformed him into an adult, he had known that leaving Dean and their dad alone together had been a huge mistake what with the way their dad had been acting. Not that he really could have done anything about it as a six year old. But as a grown up the urgent sense of _Dean-danger-wrong-hurry-hurry-hurry_ had intensified until Sam had been vibrating with the need to get to his brother immediately because he only becomes a grown up when Dean is hurt or when Dean needs his help and there's never any time to wonder why. There's never any time to even take a breath. So, no sooner had he grabbed the nearest weapon he could find than he was hurtling toward the door to confront the danger. Not surprisingly, the danger to Dean had been their father-look-alike.

The Glock seems to have been a lucky choice. Whatever his dad has become or whatever is controlling him appears to have at least respected the weapon enough to back off for the time being, although its parting threat to chase them down is more than a little unsettling.

"S-s-s-ammy, th-there's s-s-something wr-r-rong with-th d-dad. W-we h-have t-t-to help-p him." Dean's teeth are chattering together like castanets, making his words all but completely unintelligible. Neither of them have coats or even jackets and the long sleeve shirt Dean is wearing is sweat-damp, providing no insulation from the frosty air. The boy's head is heavy on his shoulder as if he's too exhausted to hold it up himself, warm puffs of breath fanning Sam's collar.

Although Sam's still not sure what exactly the thing masquerading as their father (and yeah, the more he thinks about it the more he believes there's no way that thing could actually be their dad) did to Dean, now that he has the boy pressed snug against his side the sense of urgency is fading. The police, when they arrive, are going to be looking for the guy with the gun though and that means it's past time to split.

"We will help him, Dean. We will. We'll come back once things settle down. Don't worry, dad's gonna be alright."

He has no idea if he's telling the truth or what to do to help their dad without knowing what kind of problem they're facing, but he's not going to upset Dean any more than he has to at this point.

Tucking the gun into the back of his waistband, Sam wraps his arms more tightly around Dean's shivering body, shifts his brother into a more comfortable position so he can carry him more easily, and lopes away from the motel, long legs taking them swiftly into the cloaking darkness. He runs parallel to the same country road the motel sits off of yet far enough away to be unseen by passing cars in the gloom of the night.

Every step he takes elicits an unintentional whimper from the boy clinging to his neck, reminding him that his brother had sustained injuries he still knows nothing about, injuries that caused him to collapse when their dad let go of him. Once they've put a good amount of distance between themselves and the motel, he slows down and asks, "What's wrong? Where are you hurt?"

"I dunno. 'M dizzy, leg h-hurts. C-c-cold." Dean seems to melt into his side, seeking more warmth and Sam wishes he had something more than words to offer. If only he'd thought to grab a coat on his way out the door along with the gun.

Ghosting a hand over Dean's chest, he says, "Take some deep breaths, it might help with the dizziness."

Dean nods and his ribs expand as he modifies his breathing, unflinching trust in his brother evident in the quick compliance.

Without thinking about it, Sam synchronizes his breathing with Dean's. "Your leg hurts? Which one? Am I jarring you too much when I run?" The thought occurs to him that they have nothing with them except the clothes they're wearing and one handgun. No money, no identification, nothing. Not even phone numbers for the few friends who might be able to help them. It's going to be up to him to treat Dean's injuries and sure, he knows first aid and has basic field medic training, but he still feels overwhelmed by it all and he just wants his brother to be alright, for monsters and people and circumstances to give them a break and leave them alone for once in their lives.

"This one." Dean jiggles his left leg and his knee knocks against Sam's hip. A soft moan is stifled into the hollow of Sam's throat. The emotions coming from Dean across their bond are just as stifled, little flecks of confusion, disbelief, a reluctant sense of betrayal, and a bone-deep sorrow. They're all there but muted as though Dean wants to smother his feelings, cover them up or dampen them somehow so they aren't as sharp. Like the emotions are so painful he doesn't want to feel anything anymore.

Sam thinks they both might feel better if they could just throw their heads back and let all their frustration out in a deafening shout, scream loud and long and tell the world exactly where it can go, let loose with the temper tantrum to end all temper tantrums. Yeah, that would definitely make him feel better. Instead he rubs a hand lightly over Dean's back and says, "I'm sorry, I'll be more careful. I'm going to get you somewhere warm soon. Just hang in there for me a little while longer, kiddo. Can you do that?"

Matching action to words and not waiting for an answer, Sam sets off again at a gentler pace, scanning the countryside by the faint light of the mostly full moon for some sort of shelter. A barn, a church, even an abandoned building would be better than nothing. An unlocked car would be ideal. He could hotwire it easy as pie and they'd be on their way without the owner being any the wiser until it was much too late. This just doesn't appear to be his day though because aside from a gas station which is closed up for the night, a sign proclaiming that the next town is twelve miles further down the road, and a billboard advertising the county fair from three month ago, there's not a single structure of any kind in sight. Dad must have selected that motel specifically for its remote location.

He's thinking about maybe retracing his steps and looking for a way to jimmy open the lock on the gas station or maybe just heading in the other direction in the hopes that the pickings aren't quite this sparse when he nearly stumbles over a pair of railroad tracks bisecting the lonely road.

Like providence, a train whistle sounds in the distance, haunting and clear. Maybe fate is throwing them a bone or maybe this is a sign from a higher power. Wouldn't that be nice?

The train is approaching slowly and although Sam has no way of knowing where it's going and has never tried to hop aboard a moving train before, it's as good an option as any they currently have at their disposal. Better than some of the possible courses of action he has been considering. Much better than hiding out nearby and waiting for John to come find them.

With a rumble and a clatter the locomotive draws closer, slowing further as though inviting them along for a ride even though Sam knows he and Dean are nearly invisible in the gloom, what with the navy blue sweatshirt he's wearing and the dark grey long-sleeved t-shirt Dean is wearing. It's also a fact that most stowaways aren't greeted with open arms, so there's some other reason the train is slowing down and Sam doesn't really care what that reason is as long as it works in his favor.

"Dean, if we can find an open boxcar on this train we're getting on. Be ready for me to jump."

The boy lifts his head up from its resting spot on Sam's shoulder to watch the massive, black train engine bear down on them, materializing out of the night, all thundering noise and unyielding power.

They're standing so close to the tracks as the engine in front passes that the air pressure it creates buffets Sam back a half step and he automatically puts a hand in front of Dean's face to shield him from the swirling wind and debris. The boxcars roll past one by one while he tries to see well enough in the scanty moonlight to inspect each of them for a breach, an opening, or some way inside.

It's not going to be easy, but then again that's nothing new. He's going to have to find an open car and climb into it while holding his brother. Dean can't be expected to run and jump onto a moving freight train when there's something wrong with his leg.

There are several coal cars which are open on top and then a series of nondescript cargo cars with doors that open on the side, but appear to be bolted shut. And then, miracle of miracles, a rust red boxcar draws up alongside them and the door is ajar about the span of his fist.

"Hold on tight," Sam yells to be heard over the clanking of the coupling brackets connecting one car to the next. Once he feels Dean's arms twine around his neck in a near-strangle hold and Dean's legs clench around his waist, he lets his own grip on his brother relax, trusting the boy not to let go, and begins to run beside the only unlatched car. Reaching out with one hand, he gropes until he catches a hold of the rungs on the steel ladder attached to the side of the car, runs a few more steps to get lined up just right, and then springs upward.

Dean's weight makes it difficult to judge the amount of force needed and he maybe overcompensates a little bit because they smack into the ladder harder than he anticipated and Dean's head collides with one of the rungs. The boy chokes off a soft moan into Sam's ear and then sucks in a ragged gulp of air. There's no time to apologize though as Sam's feet scrabble for purchase on the bottom rung and his free hand slaps against the heavy door, the aged iron cold and pebbled to his touch. For one terrifying second his sweat-slick grip on the ladder slips when the train gives a jerk and picks up speed.

His feet finally find stable footing on the narrow ledge protruding from the boxcar's undercarriage and with a relieved exhale he firms his one-handed hold on the ladder, stretches as far as he can to his right and grasps the large lever which serves as the boxcar's door handle. A nearly manic grin stretches his lips wide; long arms really do come in handy. The strange position he's in, plastered to the side of the train, reminds him of a Spiderman comic Dean had once.

Dean is mostly smooshed between him and the ladder, still hanging on to Sam for dear life. Using all his strength, shoulder muscles bunching and straining, Sam is able to pull the slab-like door slowly towards him along rusty grooves at its top and bottom, creating an opening large enough for him to squeeze through, bringing Dean with him. Even over the raucous noise of the train engine and the clattering cars, the door makes a screeching, whining sound like an entire flock of seagulls all fighting and bickering over a single bite of food.

They tumble into the dim interior of the boxcar and although the door is still open, the noise level is noticeably reduced by the thick walls surrounding them. Wooden crates stacked floor the ceiling take up more than half the space, but there's plenty of room to move around.

First things first, Sam rolls away from Dean to make sure he doesn't accidentally harm the boy when he sits up from the sprawl he'd landed in, untangles their limbs carefully, never forgetting that Dean is hurt even though he didn't see what happened to cause the injury while he was in the motel room and dad had Dean outside.

Dean sits forward, the only visible parts of him are the pale oval of his face and the barely discernable outline of his hands grasping at what Sam guesses must be one of the boy's legs.

"Relax and let me see if I can figure out what's wrong with your leg," Sam instructs. Inside the murky boxcar he can't actually see much of anything, so he eases his brother onto his back and begins running nimble fingers over the blue jeans covering his left leg, listening intently for any indrawn breath or other sign that he has found a source of pain.

A groan escapes the boy when Sam reaches his knee and Sam winces himself, imagining his brother's tight grimace of discomfort although he can't see the expression on his face. He manipulates the joint gingerly, feels the kneecap slide sickeningly too far out of place. Dean gasps and grabs at Sam's wrist, reflexively digging his fingers into the tough tendons there.

"Okay, okay." Lowering his voice to a quiet murmur, Sam strokes the length of Dean's leg as though he's trying to calm a skittish colt. "How did that happen, kiddo? What happened after dad sent me back to the motel room?"

He hears a rusting sound like maybe Dean is shrugging or shaking his head. Either way the question goes unanswered.

Sam resumes his inspection because there's every likelihood that the busted knee is not Dean's only injury, much as he wishes otherwise. The ankle of the same leg is swollen to the size of a softball. Pausing with his hands cupping the ankle tenderly, Sam closes his eyes for a moment and tries to think calming thoughts. He doesn't want to speak until he knows he has his voice under control.

"Can you wiggle your toes?" He eventually asks and is gratified when he can feel movement inside Dean's sneaker. "I don't think it's broken, just a bad sprain probably, but you won't be walking on that leg for a while."

"Yeah." Dean sighs, resigned.

He doesn't find any other dislocated joints or broken bones, nothing else is evident from his sense of touch alone. The light of day might tell a different story. Until then there's not much Sam can do about any of it anyway.

Dean is being quiet and that's never a good sign. Shivers continue to rack the boy's body and Sam can still hear his teeth chattering even though they're out of the biting wind. Could be his brother is going into shock. That thought motivates Sam to get a move on.

There's a narrow, enclosed area between two stacks of crates against one wall out of sight of the large door. Even if someone happens by once the train stops and gives a cursory glance inside this car they'll be hard pressed to see anyone inside that little cubby.

After a second's hesitation to determine the best way to move his brother, Sam stands behind the boy, bends over and wraps his arms snugly around his chest, then walks backwards, dragging Dean until they are both nestled within the sheltering confines of the towering boxes. It's like being inside of a moving cave made out of timber, insulated and cozy in a _boy-I-hope-these-boxes-don't-tumble-down-on-top-of-us_ kind of way. Good thing neither one of them is claustrophobic.

He eases down into a sitting position behind Dean with his legs parted in a V-shape and angles Dean so that he's in between and leaning against Sam's chest. He tries to warm the boy up by wrapping long arms around him and chafing his arms.

It almost feels like they're on that big adventure he'd been craving all day while stuck in the motel room. He has threatened to take Dean and leave their dad several times and now that he's actually doing it, the act of leaving the man behind them is scary yet strangely liberating. It's not forever, he tells himself. Just until he can he can figure out what went so terribly wrong. Just until he can fix it.

"Dean? I need you to tell me what happened back at the motel. It's important. Please."

Dean's breath hitches and speeds up. The story stutters from the boy's lips in bursts of words that falter and fade out only to pick up again in a mad rush as if the words are burning his tongue and he has to get them out fast. He ends with, "…and then dad pushed me down the stairs. He pushed me, Sammy." Dean's voice goes breathless and almost not even there and so, so young, the disbelief and horror of his own father caring so little about him stealing the last of his air.

Sam's suddenly afraid he isn't going to be able to fix this.

The things their father had said to Dean were beyond cruel, beyond devastating.

Dean's shoulders are shaking and with a start Sam realizes the boy is no longer shivering from cold, he's desperately trying to hold back his tears. He knows why Dean thinks he can't cry out loud and it makes his heart ache. "It's okay to cry, kiddo. It's okay to cry in front of me."

A sob breaks from Dean's throat and Sam just holds on to him and rides out the waves of anguish, whispering soothing nonsense and rocking him gently. Dean turns his head and tries to burrow under one of Sam's arms, his tears soaking the cotton of Sam's shirt.

After a while the sobbing tapers off and Dean feels like a limp, wrung-out weight against his chest. Sam thinks his broken brother may have fallen asleep, but in a raspy voice the boy asks, "What are we gonna do, Sammy?"

"To tell you the truth Dean, I don't really have a master plan here or anything." Sam confides softly.

Voice tinged with hope, Dean says, "We could go to Uncle Bobby's."

It's an idea, a good one actually, and how can Sam deny his brother a little bit of hope? He just has to figure out how to get there.

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Reviews are cherished.**


	4. Moments to Savor

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Special thanks to all those who wrote such lovely reviews for the last chapter. You make me so very happy and help feed my creativity. The speed of this chapter is due to your encouragement. Since I didn't get to send thanks in a review reply to the anonymous reviewers, I want to give big hugs to Sharon, Rhesa, anon, rikachan, risingsun, and fifimom**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 4 Moments to Savor**

Dean isn't sure when he first started referring to their dad's friend Bobby as Uncle Bobby. It might have been in the days after the Black Imp's attack, but Dean doesn't think it started that early. Most likely it started during one of their subsequent visits to the older hunter's scrap yard when Sammy was four or five and their dad needed help with one hunt or another. He _does_ remember that the words had unconsciously slipped out of his mouth one day while the two of them had been outside bent over an old Buick, Bobby tinkering with the engine and Dean handing over tools as needed. Dean had felt his face go red with embarrassment, but Bobby had just laughed, pleased, and put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. The name had stuck, Sammy quickly picking up on it, and the man had been Uncle Bobby ever since.

As one of the few – very few – people who know anything at all about Sammy's Wish, Uncle Bobby has become more than just a friend of the family – he is family.

The prospect of going to Bobby's gives Dean a glimmer of purpose, something to pin his hopes on. There's one thing he knows for certain about Bobby - if it's in the man's power to help them, to help their dad, he'll do whatever it takes and leave no stone unturned.

That's not to say that he doesn't trust Sammy to do anything and everything possible, because he does. Dean trusts his brother implicitly and it's a trust born of experience. He's seen his adult brother in action, knows what Sam is capable of. Sammy in grown up form becomes truly awe inspiring in his drive to protect.

When Dean had asked Sam what they were going to do, he had been prepared to follow his brother to the ends of the earth if Sam had said that's where they needed to go, no questions asked. It made him feel good though, useful, to be able to suggest going to Uncle Bobby's. It's not so much that he's proud of himself for coming up with a solution; it's more that he's happy to have made a contribution. When Sammy is little Dean is usually the responsible one and when Sam is big Dean is satisfied to let him take the lead, but he doesn't want to be a burden and with his leg messed up…that's exactly what he is, a burden.

"You're thinking too hard, kiddo. Aren't you tired? You can sleep and I'll keep watch." Sam says from behind him.

Rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand, Dean lets himself soak up his brother's warmth where his back rests against Sam's upper body. "I'm not that tired," he lies.

The truth is that his whole body aches except his left foot which has gone mostly numb. The swelling around his ankle makes the skin feel stretched taught and burning hot. The rest of him is still chilled even with Sam offering his own body heat like a living, breathing heating pad. Jolts of pain flash through his knee every time the boxcar hitches over uneven terrain or a bump on the rails.

More distracting than all his injuries combined though is the incessant worry about his dad. A floaty, weightless sensation makes him feel like he's going to drift away, a balloon without a string and no one to hold onto him. He can't stop thinking about the events that led to their bizarre escape via freight train of all things. Everything keeps spinning around and around in his mind. His father's voice is set on repeat: _you really are worthless, you're not only lazy and stupid but a crybaby too, I'll find you when you least expect it and you'll wish you'd never been born._

There's no way he's going to be able to fall asleep.

No way.

Dean is still considering all the reasons why the sandman won't be paying him a visit anytime soon when exhaustion gives him a little tug and his head lolls into the crook of Sam's elbow. Two seconds later, he's out like a light.

He awakens some indeterminable time later to the soft stroking of his brother's fingers smoothing the hair back from his temple, playing with the fine strands absentmindedly. It's nice, sweet in a way and also grounding, providing him with a desperately needed touchstone. He feels cared for and watched over.

The cloaking darkness gives him the illusion of anonymity. For just a little while he can be any little boy being comforted by any parental figure. For just a little while he can pretend to be anyone other than Dean Winchester, son of John Winchester.

Since he doesn't get to have this very often - too much his hardened father's soldier-in-training - he sinks into the gentle touch. The rare moment is precious to him. He savors it while it lasts.

The railcar continues to roll along, swaying back and forth as though trying to rock him back to sleep. Nothing is visible in the darkness of night, but Dean imagines the frosty landscape outside the door as they move past and it recedes into the distance. He wonders if they're passing mountains or lakes, maybe sleepy neighborhoods or horse pastures.

"Go back to sleep, Dean." Sam murmurs.

And Dean does.

When next he wakes, dawn's early, dull glow is seeping into the boxcar. Sam's hand has ceased its idle petting and is circling his wrist as if Sam is in the middle of counting the beats of his pulse. Dean takes a deep breath of icy air which seems to be Sam's cue.

"Morning kiddo," his brother yawns, releasing his wrist. "How're you feeling?"

Experimentally shifting his left leg turns out to be a big mistake. The resulting flare of pain steals his breath and he immediately freezes, holding stock still and willing the pain to subside. _Ouch_. Okay, not moving ever, ever again sounds like a really good plan.

Sam exhales loudly in sympathy. "That bad, huh?"

Dean just lifts one shoulder in a slight shrug and tries to come up with a different topic of conversation. He hates hearing that concerned tone of voice coming from his brother, hates that he's the one who caused it even more. "Where are we?" He diverts.

"I don't know for sure." Sam gestures at the land speeding by the open door. "We haven't stopped all night and we're moving pretty fast. The sun is coming up in front of us, so I guess we're moving east or maybe southeast which means we're headed in roughly the right direction if we still want to get to Bobby's."

In order to look at the passing scenery Dean has to scoot forward a couple of feet. The view is spectacular, well worth the effort. He cranes his neck and then gingerly props himself up on his elbows so he can see more of the stunning landscape, his vow of stillness from only moments ago forgotten. "Oh, wow." He breathes, awestruck.

The plains stretch out for miles, dotted with trees and shrub. A thin layer of frost shimmers on every blade of grass, every delicate leaf. Fading away into the distance and shrouded by morning fog is the blue-grey outline of a mountain chain.

They've driven through the Great Plains on several occasions, most notably when they're on their way to or from Bobby's house, but there's something different about seeing the majestic landscape from aboard a swiftly moving train with none of the normal roadside distractions to take away from the natural beauty of the land and nothing to mar the unbroken landscape. It's far better than seeing it from the back seat of a car, that's for sure.

Sam takes the opportunity to wriggle carefully the rest of the way out from underneath his brother and join him in admiring the view. "It's beautiful."

At the edge of a copse of trees, Dean spots a small group of deer. "Look." He points excitedly.

Smiling fondly, Sam says, "Mule deer. They usually only come out at dawn and dusk."

"Cool." Dean says.

"Now that the sun is up, I need to take a better look at you. I need to see what's what." As he talks, Sam moves closer to Dean's left side, slides an assessing hand onto his ankle. "Swelling has gone down a bit, that's good. I probably should have tried to elevate it last night. It might have gone down even more." Sam frowns. "How does it feel?"

"I can't really feel it at all." Dean says, unconcerned. Considering how the rest of his body feels, not feeling anything is preferable.

Sam's frown deepens. "You can't feel your ankle?"

"I can't feel my foot." Dean clarifies.

Muttering under his breath, Sam hastily removes Dean's sneaker and then his sock. The bruising is impressive, bright blues and purples decorating his ankle and creating blotchy patches on the side of his foot. It looks like a finger painting project Sammy made in kindergarten last year. "Oh Dean." Sam covers his mouth with the fingers of one hand.

Dean can't stand to see Sam looking so upset. He bites his bottom lip and tries to pull his foot out of his brother's loose grip. "It's okay. It's not that bad." Unfortunately, his knee chimes in with a loud chorus of complaints at the movement and Dean has to stop on a gasp.

"I'm sorry. Jeez, I'm so sorry." Sam says as if he's accepting the blame for much more than just the colorful bruising. "Your shoe must have cut off some of the circulation to your foot what with the swelling. I should have thought of that and I didn't. I'm such an idiot, God, I'm so sorry."

None of this is Sam's fault; he shouldn't be apologizing. Dean doesn't have to open up the channel of empathy between them to feel the waves of remorse Sam is emitting. "Don't say that. It's not that big a deal. I can't…please." He can't handle Sam's guilt, not now when everything is so screwed up.

Sam gets it, he nods and lowers his hand from his mouth. "Okay, kiddo, okay, but this is going to hurt. I'm going to try to get the blood circulating again." Propping Dean's foot in his lap, Sam starts rubbing both hands over the arch of his foot, massaging his instep and heel.

At first he can't even tell what part of his foot Sam is touching. Then the sharp pricks of pins and needles begin in the ball of his foot. They spread out from there until he doesn't have to imagine what it would feel like to put his foot into a hornet's nest because he's getting the full experience, thousands of angry stingers jabbing into him all at the same time. His foot is on fire. He wants to move away from the source of the pain, needs Sam to stop digging his fingers into his swollen flesh. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, Dean clamps his teeth together so he can't cry out and balls his hands into fists, his short fingernails biting into his palms unnoticed.

When the stinging sensation finally eases off, he opens his eyes to see his brother watching him, concern etching deep groves across his forehead. "I can feel my foot again." He tries to erase Sam's worried expression by pasting on a grin, but his voice catches unconvincingly so he's not really all that surprised when he fails.

Sam swallows and looks back down at the foot he's cradling in his lap. "Good, that's good." It's perfectly clear to someone who knows Sam as well as Dean does that his brother would like to say more and is restraining himself with great difficulty. Since he probably wants to apologize some more and beat himself up a little bit just for the heck of it, Dean is happy with the uncomfortable silence that follows instead.

There are more bruises on his shoulders and back. Dean can tell each time Sam finds a new mark by the tsking sounds he makes. The examination is conducted from the waist up as it would be difficult given Dean's unstable kneecap to get the jeans on and off without causing additional problems. That's Sam's analysis anyway and Dean wholeheartedly seconds his opinion. Not only would the process be painful, but also talk about embarrassing.

They have no first aid supplies, not even a length of bandage to wrap Dean's ankle, so once Sam determines there's nothing more that can be done, they sit back to enjoy their easy camaraderie, taking turns pointing out anything through the doorway that catches their eye.

"What's that?" Dean asks, indicating a scattering of dark shapes moving slowly in the distance.

Sam squints in the indicated direction and shields his eyes against the glare of the advancing sun. A smile emerges gradually as he recognizes the huge animals. "Bison," he says, laughter in his voice. "It's a herd of bison. Hey, remember that time we were trying to get to Bobby's and the road into town was blocked by about fifteen bison? Dad got out of the car all fearless and self-confident to try to shoo the shaggy beasts out of the way."

"Yeah, and they just stared at him like they owned the road and he was nothing more than a pest." Dean grins, remembering how he and Sammy had sat in the backseat with their noses pressed to the window, watching their mighty hunter father bested by a herd of buffalo.

Sam's mind has obviously gone to the same place. He muses, "That's the first time I ever saw anything get the better of dad. We must have waited half an hour before they decided to move on."

And now dad's apparently been bested by something else altogether and suddenly it doesn't seem so funny anymore. The smile slides from Dean's face and he stares at Sam while his brother stares at the grazing animals.

"We'll go to Bobby's and tell him what's going on. He'll be able to help us. It's going to be alright, Dean. We're going to get dad back." Sam speaks without taking his eyes from the herd, knowing instantly when the mood shifts.

Dean leans back and closes his eyes against the prickle of tears. He's not going to cry, he doesn't need to. The empathic bond they share gives Sam a direct line into Dean's state of mind and sometimes, like now, Dean is intensely grateful that his brother understands him on such a deep level. There's no need to hash things out or try to talk about how he feels because Sam already knows. Sam already knows.

Still without turning to look at him, Sam laces their fingers together and gives them a brief squeeze. _We're together in this. _Dean sqeezes back_. I know._

Hunger is gnawing at his belly by the time the first industrial buildings begin to encroach on the undisturbed plainlands. A railway station comes into view and beyond it the outskirts of a large town or city.

"As soon as the coast is clear we'll get off the train and see where we are. Hopefully we're not too far from Bobby's." Sam says as he scoots back into their hidey-hole made of crates and repositions Dean to make sure nothing is visible to someone looking in from outside of the railcar. "Until we know it's safe, we're going to have to stay hidden."

"Yeah, okay." Dean readily agrees. He really doesn't want Sam to have to explain their unauthorized presence to anyone.

The train begins to slow, the high pitched grinding sound of brakes being applied can be heard above the groan of the engines powering down. If Dean had to place the sound of the train coming to a halt he would probably say it sounded like a hill giant sitting down after a long day of hard work, expelling a huge whoosh of air as it shuttered to rest. Not that he's ever actually met a hill giant, but you know, anything's possible.

Railway workers are striding loudly back and forth on the platforms right outside their boxcar. He can hear the stomp of their boots and the sometimes boisterous sometimes soft cadence of conversations. After a while things seem to calm down and Dean thinks they may just about be clear to leave when the car rocks beneath them.

"I'll be right there. I just gotta check on the freight cars." A man's gruff voice yells from the other side of the crates.

Dean holds his breath, feels Sam's chest stop moving too. Maybe the man won't see them, they're nestled pretty far back after all. But this particular railway worker has been around the block once or twice and the man obviously knows what to look for and, more importantly, where to look for it. Within moments of the man jumping into their boxcar a pair of brown eyes is peering at them from around a stack of crates.

"All right you two, time to vamoose." The railway man sounds kind of discouraged, but not surprised to find them there. "You leave now and I won't call railway security on you. Go on now, git."

"No problem." Sam nods and gives the man an appreciative smile. He stands up and looks down at Dean. "Just give as a minute and we'll be out of your hair."

Sam must have put about as much thought into how to get Dean out of the railcar as Dean has and they're both at a loss for what to do that won't look ridiculous to the stranger now watching them. One way to solve the problem would be for Sam to drag Dean out of the cubby and over to the door where he could jump out first and then lift Dean down. Dean's knee could stay straight the whole time that way and it would be the least painful way to go. It's probably also the most cringe-worthy method of getting out of the boxcar and Dean's face heats up at the mere thought. To save his pride, Dean raises his hand to his brother and says, "Help me up, please."

"Sure. Of course," Sam says out loud and then whispers, "Use me like a crutch," into Dean's ear.

The railroad worker is watching them like a hawk, taking in every detail as they hobble-pause-hobble-pause over to the door. "You boys don't have coats?" He asks while Sam jumps out and turns to help Dean.

Truth be told, Dean had forgotten exactly how cold it was with the wind blowing outside. Bracing himself against the wintery breeze, he lets Sam lower him to the ground where he leans into his brother and waits to see how this exchange is going to play out. Although he's been quiet up to this point, he's ready to back Sam up if need be.

"No, sir." Sam rests a protective hand on Dean's shoulder.

"Probably hungry too, I'll bet."

Sam considers the question and gives a brisk nod.

"That's what I thought." The man lets out a world-weary sigh. "In that case I guess you'd better come with me. By the way, you can call me Steve."

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Reviews are cherished.**


	5. Breach of Sanctuary

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! I've been writing night and day to get this chapter to you quickly. I hope you like it.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 5 Breach of Sanctuary**

Steve is a burly man, broad of shoulders and barrel-chested with arms like two-by-fours, but not really all that tall, maybe five and a half feet or so. His head is shaved bald, a matter of choice not genetics and his face is dominated by a bushy brown mustache.

"I'm Sam, this is Dean." Sam holds his hand out to shake Steve's proffered one and Dean gives a tentative nod of his head as though he's not ready to be friendly yet, reserving judgment for a later date.

"Where are you boys trying to get to?" Steve asks while leading them down a long platform and into the station's terminal.

"Sioux Falls. How close did we make it?" Sam replies.

He insists on picking Dean up once he realizes Steve is taking them through the bustling terminal. There's no point in risking the boy getting bumped into and putting additional strain on his knee or ankle. Plus it's faster this way and Sam suspects that, even with as much help as he can give supporting Dean's left side while his brother tries to shuffle along, any movement in the knee joint is a lot more painful than Dean wants to admit. His brother doesn't put up much of a fight when Sam lifts him up and braces him against his hip, just scowls before snaking his arms around Sam's neck for balance.

To his credit, Steve doesn't mention Dean's mobility issues and Sam credits good manners for the way the other man holds the door to the terminal open for them with a compassionate look on his rugged face, but no sign of pity or condescension.

The station must service mostly freight trains because there aren't any passengers in the small waiting area. Men driving forklifts loaded with pallets move purposefully around the platforms leading between trains and a loading dock attached to a warehouse next to the terminal. Weaving in and out of and generally adding to the chaos are other men in hard hats carrying clipboards with what Sam guesses must be cargo manifests attached to them.

"Well, I don't know where you started out from, but you made it to within about a three hour drive of Sioux Falls. You have anyone there who can come pick you up?"

Sam thinks about Bobby. He doesn't have their friend's phone number, but it shouldn't be too hard to look up a phone number for Singer Salvage. In the light of day and with the possible help of someone who appears to be friendly things don't seem so desperately out of control. "Yeah, if you have a phone we can borrow I think I know someone who will come get us."

Dean is pushing emotions at him – doubt, concern, and wariness strong among them. _Don't trust him._ The message comes across loud and clear. They had both been taught from the very beginning of their dad's crusade not to trust anyone and Dean's caution is well founded. Sam catches Dean's eye to let him know they're on the same page. They can accept help only to a point and no further. Evil comes in many disguises. Neither one of them is likely to forget that lesson any time soon, not after facing evil in the guise of their own father.

They walk up to a deli counter inside the terminal and Steve greets the vendor as if they're old friends. "Hey Dave. Can you get these young men something to eat and put it on my tab?"

Dave shakes his head with an amused grin. "Not again. You're such a soft touch, man. How many does this make now?"

"Cut it out," Steve gripes at his buddy. "They're good kids, just lost their way. I have a nose for these things."

"Yeah, yeah, so I've heard before."

"We'll pay you back." Sam quickly interjects. "Is there any work you need done around here?"

"This here's all union labor, son." Steve says with pride in his voice. "There's no work on the rail yard for you, but…let me think about it. I might be able to come up with something." He gives Sam's arm a pat and nudges him up to the counter. "Go ahead and tell Dave what you want to eat."

It's a little early for lunch, only about eleven o'clock, so the vender's stall is empty of customers. Sam gets his brother settled into a plastic chair at a small table nearby and goes back to place their order, a ham and cheese sandwich for Dean and turkey and cheese for himself.

Dave loads up a tray with the sandwiches, a couple bags of chips, two large red apples, and two cans of soda even though Sam hadn't asked for anything other than the sandwiches. He winks and shakes his head when Sam tries to decline the extra food. "I tease Steve about his strays, but he really does have good intuition when it comes to people. If Steve says you're okay then you're okay by me. We try to do right by people around these parts."

Sam ducks his head. "Thanks, you don't…that means a lot." The rare act of kindness hits Sam hard and he has to turn away before his emotions betray him.

"Naw." He hears Dean saying when he gets back to the table with the heavily-laden tray of food. "He's my uncle. My dad had to go to Canada for a family emergency. I was supposed to go with him, but we couldn't get my passport quick enough." The tilt of Dean's head, the round ingenuous eyes, and the slight pout are all carefully contrived. "My dad set us up with a way back home to Sioux Falls before he had to leave, but it fell through and we were kinda stranded."

The lie trips off the boy's lips as if he were an accomplished con artist; vague enough not to easily trip any wires yet detailed enough to have a ring of truth. Sam wonders how many times Dean has had to be creative with the truth in order to protect their dad or to keep the authorities from catching wind of two small boys left on their own for far too long.

"Uh huh." Steve nods and glances over at Sam. A quirk of the railroad man's mouth makes Sam think that, as good as his brother is, he hasn't quite managed to pull the wool over Steve's eyes. "Well, listen guys, you eat up and I'm gonna go get some more work done. I'm still on the clock, ya know. But I'll come back and check up on you in a bit. We'll see about getting you to a phone so you can call your friend."

"Thank you," Sam says, his appreciation genuine. "For everything."

Steve dismisses the thanks with a wave over his shoulder as he heads out the door and takes off in the direction of the warehouse building.

The closer it gets to noon the more people congregate in the terminal, many of them heading over to the deli kiosk for lunch fare. The majority of the patrons look to be railroad workers, men wearing heavy work boots, dungarees or blue jeans and Union Pacific jackets. As they eat, Sam notices a few curious stares, a few nods of acknowledgment, and a couple thoughtful frowns tossed their way. It's plain to see that everyone here knows everyone else and he and Dean aren't exactly blending in.

Suddenly, it feels like all eyes are on them and the back of his neck begins to prickle. Paranoia or real danger? The two can be difficult to tell apart. Sam sits back in his chair, feels the comforting press of the gun at the small of his back, and lets his hunter instincts take over. Glancing around, he sees that while people are definitely curious, no one appears hostile. In fact, most of the railroad personnel appear openly friendly in a small town, homey kind of way and Sam relaxes. He's not about to let his guard down, but until proven otherwise, maybe, just maybe, he and his brother can find a haven in this place.

"That wasn't dad back there, was it?"

Although Sam has been thinking the same thing for a while now, Dean's quiet question comes from out of the blue, indicating that their dad's strange behavior is constantly on the boy's mind. "No, I don't think so." Sam takes a bite of his apple to stall for a little extra time. "Dad wouldn't say those things to you, Dean. He wouldn't intentionally try to hurt you." He really hopes his brother already knows that their father loves him, in his own way.

Dean picks at the crust of his bread and schools his face into a carefully blank mask which does nothing to dampen the complicated mixture of profound yearning and anger eating him up from the inside. "No, he wouldn't do it on purpose." He cuts his eyes sideways and eats a few chips.

Sam watches the boy and feels weary beyond belief, the long night on the train with no sleep catching up with him. He searches for something meaningful to say, something that won't sound hollow and empty.

"Hey fellas, I want to introduce you to our shipping coordinator, Tim. He's one of the few guys around here with an office and a telephone." Steve approaches the table, effectively interrupting the conversation about their father. "Tim, this is Sam and Dean."

Smiling affably, Tim says, "So, I hear you guys are stranded and need to make a phone call."

It sounds so unbelievably simple, the answer to all their problems condensed into one tidy little sentence. Salvation is only a telephone call away. As if anything could be that easy.

Sam wants to simultaneously warn these hard-working, kind-hearted people about what's behind the curtain or build an impenetrable wall around this sanctuary to ward off all evil influences. He does neither, contents himself with returning Tim's smile. "Yeah, if you don't mind. I need to look up my friend's phone number and see if he can come pick us up."

"Tim can show you how to get to his office and in the meantime I was thinking Dean might want to see inside one of the locomotives, maybe pull the whistle." Steve suggests.

Just like any typical ten year old boy, Dean's eyes light up at mention of the train whistle, the thought of creating that much noise nearly irresistible to him. Such an insignificant thing has done what Sam has wanted to do since the topic of their dad came up earlier, take Dean's mind off his worries.

Tim chuckles. "My kids couldn't get enough of the train whistle when they were your age."

It's so tempting to let Dean have some fun. On the other hand, the idea of his brother being out of his sight - out in the open where anything could get him - with no one to protect him - even if it's only for a couple of minutes - makes his skin crawl with apprehension. He pushes inquisitiveness at Dean, but mixes it with doubt. _Do you want to? I'm not sure it's a good idea._

"I'll stay with Sam." Dean decides and Sam is relieved because as much as he doesn't want to disappoint his brother the prospect of being separated from him makes him jittery. And just because these people seem honest and trustworthy doesn't make it true.

"A package deal, eh? That's fine, we'll save the train engine for after Sam's finished with his phone calls." Steve points at the tray. "If you're done eating we can go now."

Looking down, Sam realizes that between the two of them they have devoured all the food, leaving only some crumbled bits of crust and the apple cores. "Yeah, great."

With Dean riding on Sam's back piggyback style this time, they follow Tim through a door marked 'private' and into a hallway connecting the terminal to the warehouse. The weight of his brother on his back reminds him of the days following the Bunyip attack last year. Sam had spent those days as an adult packing as much childhood fun into Dean's life as he could think of. They had been some of the most rewarding days he can remember, doing nothing other than finding ways to make Dean smile.

Spaced intermittently along the hallway are doors which presumably all lead to offices. Tim's office is sparsely furnished with a desk, a swivel chair on rollers and a file cabinet. A fine layer of dust coats every surface as if the dirt from the railroad refuses to be kept out despite closed doors and any attempts that might be made at cleanliness.

"I don't spend too much time in here." Steve explains with a rueful grin.

An electronic voice gives him a number for Singer Salvage in Sioux Falls when Sam dials information on the black rotary phone. Ten rings later he sighs and hangs up the handset. "No answer."

He watches Dean's face fall and across their empathic link he catches the reverberating echo of Dean's hopes as they plummet.

In a subdued voice Steve says, "Maybe he just stepped out for a moment. You can try again in a little while."

"Sure." Sam says out loud while pushing optimism at his brother. _We'll get there._

For the second time in as many days he thinks about hotwiring a car and driving to Bobby's. They could be there in three hours according to Steve. But…stealing a car when your father's evil doppelganger is threatening to do worse than kill you is one thing, stealing someone's only means of transportation simply because it makes your life a little easier is a horse of a different color. It just doesn't sit right with him.

"How about we go see the locomotive now and try again when we get back?" Steve grabs the back of the rolling office chair where Dean is sitting and begins pushing it out the door and along the hallway. The man is trying so hard to win Dean over, to turn what is obviously a horrible situation for a young boy into a more positive experience. Sam wonders why the man cares.

"I could get used to this." Dean crows as he is wheeled into the terminal and from there onto the platform outside. He turns around in the seat to make sure Sam is following.

"I'll just bet you could." Sam jokes, although he knows that Dean can't stand sitting still and the only reason he's putting up with the ride is because it's less humiliating than being carried, if only marginally.

Tim laughs out loud and reaches over the side of the chair to ruffle Dean's hair. Both men seem drawn in by the contrast in Dean's boyish exuberance and his stoic, often sorrowful demeanor. Dean can charm the pants off nearly anyone when he's trying, but his natural personality, when he's simply being himself without the bravado and the pretending, is even more endearing.

The wind blows and Steve takes off his jacket to wrap it around Dean's shoulders. The boy seems somewhat puzzled by the gift, but slips his arms through the sleeves nonetheless. They all pick up their pace in deference to the chill in the air.

The pathway ahead of them diverges and Steve leads their small procession around a curve in between two rail cars, pushing Dean's chair in front of him as though the boy is a VIP receiving a special guided tour. Tim follows and Sam brings up the rear.

There are only a few men and women still loading and unloading cargo, repairing equipment or tending to the multitude of chores necessary to keep the trains in good operating order. Most of the railroad workers are still on their lunch breaks. The platform ahead of them is bordered by a train on both sides and clear of pedestrians until a trio of men jump out of a rail car directly in front of them, timing their appearance such that they're within arm's reach of Dean's chair.

"This must be our lucky day." One of the men leers nastily at the incapacitated boy. "We were hoping to run into you here."

The trains on either side of them prevent anyone inside the terminal from seeing what's happening on this short stretch of pavement.

A crunch of gravel alerts Sam to the presence of someone behind him. He's caught off guard and curses futilely as a powerful kick causes his knees to buckle, sending him crashing to the ground in a heap. Sharply-honed reflexes and adrenaline combine to have him on his feet before whoever is behind him can press their advantage and he sweeps his assailant's legs out from under him, returning the favor.

A man in a ball cap snatches his brother roughly out of the wheeled chair. Dean twists an arm free and rams his elbow into his would-be abductor's stomach, a move which costs him dearly when, in retaliation, ball-cap-guy winds his forearm around the boy's throat and flexes.

"Guess I'm gonna hafta teach you to show some respect." With a cruel smirk he tightens his grip.

Letting out a choked whimper, Dean scrabbles wildly at the man's strangling arm and his jade green eyes get impossibly large.

The sound that comes out of Sam's mouth can only be described as a roar. In a display of outrage he throws himself at Dean's captor, using his body as a battering ram to tackle the man.

Stumbling backwards, ball-cap-guy drops Dean who crumples forward, clutching his leg in agony while gasping in a lungful of air. Steve swoops in, lifts the boy up and, cradling him possessively, retreats until he has his back pressed defensively against the barrier of the nearest train.

At this point it's hard to tell friend from foe. The impulse to snatch Dean away from Steve almost gets the better of him, but one look tells him that his brother is in good hands.

Their four attackers are circling like a pack of rabid dogs waiting for a sign of weakness. Sam goes for the gun at his waistband only to have it knocked out of his hand when all four of the men rush him at once, sensing that if they can take him out the rest of the group will be easy prey.

They didn't count on Tim.

Through a hail of kicks and punches and the press of bodies pinning him to the ground, Sam sees Tim pull a two-way radio off his utility belt.

"Emergency on platform 6! All personnel report to platform 6 immediately! Emergency! Emergency!" He yells into the device.

A kick to the head makes Sam's vision dim. He tries to resist the drag of encroaching darkness because he knows Dean needs him. Dean's frightened. He surges up, swinging, and lands a vicious right hook. But then a blow to his throat compromises his airway and all the fight drains out of him like water through a sieve.

He hears the sound of yelling and pounding boots on concrete and gravel. He feels his brother's desperate desire to be free of Steve's restricting arms and to get to him, to help him. His ears start ringing from the endless assault and his struggles get weaker. One final jab to his face and Sam sinks into calm, quiet oblivion.

"Sam! Sammy!" Dean's voice seems to be coming from very far away, but when Sam concentrates he can hear the hysterical tremor as if the boy has reached his breaking point. He can sense Dean's terror at being left behind at the mercy of strangers with no one he can trust and no one to rely on. But beyond the fear for himself is an overwhelming despair and the burden of a duty unfulfilled. The knife's edge of responsibility neglected.

He needs to tell his brother that he has never neglected his responsibilities. As far as Sam is concerned, Dean has fulfilled every duty, even those which never should have been his to fulfill in the first place. He needs to reassure Dean that he isn't alone and will never be left alone. Sam forces his eyes open and finds the boy's face so close to his own that he has to cross his eyes to be able to see him and even then he's just a blur. Dean has both his hands fisted in Sam's shirt death grip tight and is curled protectively around Sam's prone body at the expense of his torn up knee and still swollen ankle.

"Dean, it's alright. I'm alright."

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Your reviews are all the reward I need! **


	6. Pictures That Tell a Story

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Your wonderful reviews have kept me motivated. I can't believe how prolific I've been. *cough cough* Yeah, yeah, well for me this is prolific. I'm always amazed at how quickly some people can write while I toil away at an agonizingly slow pace. I hope you enjoy the fruits of my labor!**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 6 Pictures That Tell A Story**

Railway workers are milling all around, crowding too close, demanding to know 'what happened' and 'who's hurt' and 'what needs to be done' in loud, dissonant voices.

Some of them had gone in pursuit of the four men who had attacked Sam, but many of them had arrived too late to witness the ferocious beating. It had been horrifying, a frenzy of battering blows and disabling kicks, it had been animalistic…inhuman.

And now Sam is lying on the train platform unconscious with strangers swarming all around him and Dean has to get to him, help him, protect him. He squirms and snarls, not even recognizing his own voice, until he is able to slip free of Steve's sheltering grasp. Once he reaches his brother he starts calling his name, desperate for a response, while simultaneously using his body to shield Sammy from all the people crushing in on them. "Please Sam, please. Sam! Sammy!"

Cracking open unfocused eyes, Sam mumbles something that sounds like 'Dean, I'm okay' or 'It's alright' and even though neither of those things are remotely true it still makes him heave a shuddering breath of relief because Sam is awake and talking and Dean's unforgivable lapse hasn't resulted in the tragedy it could so easily have turned into. This is the first time Sam has been hurt while trying to keep him out of danger and Dean feels wretched.

It's the first time Sam has been hurt while protecting him, but it's not the first time Sam has been hurt _because_ of him. No, that would have been the Shtriga attack from a few months ago and Dean had sworn a solemn oath to never, ever shirk his responsibilities like that again. Dad had been furious then and Dean shudders to think what the hunter will do have to say about this.

"Everyone, please move back. Give them some room. A little space here, please." Pushing through the mob with his hands in front of him like he's trying to part the red sea, Tim soon has the concerned railroad personnel dispersed to a considerate distance where they congregate in clumps to discuss the latest excitement. Tim may not be the largest or the most intimidating man around, but with his long legs and commanding voice he has a certain presence and his co-workers obviously respect him.

Steve squats down nearby and places a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder to keep him from trying to sit up. "Easy, take it easy. Do you need an ambulance?"

"No ambulance. It looks a lot worse than it is. I'm fine." He sounds like he's talking around a mouthful of marbles, but Sam's gaze is clearer and he looks right at Dean, puts his hand on top of the two Dean has fisted in his shirt. "It's not that bad, kiddo." Through their link Dean gets indignation, forgiveness, humor and deep abiding affection. _Stop beating yourself up. None of this is your fault._

Unconvinced, Tim says, "It looked pretty bad. Are you sure we can't call you an ambulance?"

"I'm sure. All four of them were so intent on getting their licks in that they didn't bother putting all that much force behind their swings." Sam grimaces as Steve gives up and helps him to a more or less sitting position.

Ignoring the razor blades that seem to be imbedded in his kneecap, Dean rakes his eyes over ever part of his brother he can see, anxiously cataloguing every red puffy mark and contusion. The steady thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump of Sam's heart is like a siren's call to him and he finds himself in his brother's lap, ear pressed to his heart, which is probably a good thing because he hasn't figured out how to make his hands relax their grip on Sam's shirt yet. He might be embarrassed later, but right now he's still stuck in a loop of panic and guilt and fear and remorse. Regardless of how it looks to anyone else, he needs this contact, proof that his brother is here with him.

"Who were those men, Sam? They sounded as if they were after Dean. What did they want?" Steve's eyes are piercing; disturbed in a way that makes Dean think this is the first time anything like this has ever happened at the train yard.

"I don't know who they were. I've never seen them before." Sam rubs his jaw, fingering the tender area where a bruise will most likely appear tomorrow.

Steve glances at Tim as though he needs some backup and then rests a work-roughened hand lightly on the top of Dean's head. "Just tell me…look, I need to know I'm doing the right thing here. Are you in some kind of trouble?"

"You don't have to tell us everything. I know sometimes things get out of hand and it's hard to know where to turn. We just want to help." Tim joins in. "We've all been there at some point."

"I doubt you've ever been where we are." Sam clenches his teeth, a dead giveaway to how upset he's getting. The barrage of questions following the fight and the worry brought on by their father have all taken their toll and Dean can sense his brother reaching the end of his rope despite his best efforts to be strong.

The need for reinforcements has never been greater. If only they could get to Bobby's, let Sam take a break, everything might be better. Help is so close and yet it seems further away than ever. Dean looks at Steve, at Tim, assessing. Or they could take a chance on these men and let the chips fall where they may. Not that he's ready to let the cat out of the bag completely, but maybe they could be slightly more honest than they've been up until now.

"Can you at least tell us how Dean hurt his leg?" Tim asks hopefully like maybe that story will be an easy starting point.

And Dean can't take anymore without speaking up. "My dad's in trouble." He can feel his chin quiver and hates how he can't control it. He hates the tell-tale quiver because he doesn't want Tim and Steve to see how weak he is, doesn't want them to think he can't handle this. Never mind that he's basically huddled in Sam's lap right now. Sam's not the only one who has taken one too many blows lately. Dean had almost lost his brother and sometimes…well, sometimes his thinks Sam might be the only thing standing between him and utter despair.

"What kind of trouble?"

"I don't know what kind." Dean states miserably.

"Those four men who tried to take Dean may be involved with John, Dean's father." Sam squeezes the nape of Dean's neck in a show of support and now that the young boy has taken the initiative to tell their new friends more of the truth, he seems content to follow his lead and add more to the explanation. "It seems like too much of a coincidence for them to show up here acting as if they know us for it all not to be related somehow."

"Okay, that settles it." A determined expression steals over Steve's kind features. "You boys are coming home with me tonight."

"No. We couldn't do that." Sam pinches the bridge of his nose and then brushes his wayward bangs out of his eyes. "I don't want to put you in danger. Those men might come back."

"If those men found you here by following the train and checking the first stop along the train tracks, then they won't know where you're going to go next. They don't know me and they don't know where I live. They won't be able to follow you to my house." Steve tries to reason.

Stubbornly, Sam shakes his head. "We can't be sure of that. I can't take the chance."

When it looks as though Sam wants to stand up, Tim steps forward and holds his arms out to Dean.

The silent offer startles Dean. He's not sure he's ready to relinquish his grasp on his only anchor and yet he can't expect his brother to continue to sit here indefinitely cuddling him like a spoiled brat. So, he's going to have to get up and he knows Tim is being really nice, asking in a non-threatening way if he can help by picking him up. Tim is a good guy. Who knows what might have happened if the lanky shipping coordinator hadn't been smart enough to rally the railroad workers to come help Sam. Dean doesn't want to make him feel bad by rejecting the offer. It's that thought more than the hot throbbing from his abused knee that makes him unclench his fists from his brother's shirt and lift his arms out to Tim in acceptance.

Sam watches with a look of amazement as Tim gets Dean settled as comfortably as he can in the chair once more. The anxious concern he pushes at Dean comes as no surprise, Dean would feel the same if the roles were reversed. He wouldn't want anyone else taking care of Sammy.

Taking his cue from Tim, Steve pulls Sam to his feet, keeping a hand under his elbow to steady him just in case. Sam's hand jerks up to cover his ribs, a crinkle of pain evident on his brow.

"No offense son, but you look like a stiff wind could knock you over." Tim eyes Sam's hunched form critically. "You're both done in."

"Where else can you go? I'm your best choice, maybe your only choice." Steve takes a step back and rubs a worried hand over his shaved head. "Come to my place. You can get a good night's sleep and in the morning I'll drive you to Sioux Falls myself."

"Why can't you take us now?" It's rude and it's wrong and Sam hasn't even agreed to let Steve take them anywhere yet, but Dean can't keep from asking. Steve is right, Sam is shaky at best and they need to get to Bobby's. Now.

"If I take you now what're you going to do if your friend still isn't there? Do you have anywhere else you can stay?"

Dean chews his lip, no answer forthcoming. There isn't anywhere else they can go. They don't know anyone else is Sioux Falls.

"And even if he is there, how do you know he can help you?"

"He can help." Dean has to believe Bobby can help.

Sighing, Steve pleads, "How about this – you call again and if he answers I'll take you right now or he can come get you, whatever you want. But if he doesn't answer you come with me, let me ease my conscious by making sure I'm at least sending you off in better shape than you arrived. Please. I want to do this. Please let me."

Sam's eyes narrow to suspicious slits. "Why?" He asks. "Why do you want to help us?"

"I may not be exactly where you are now," Steve concedes. "But I've seen my share of dark days, days when I wasn't…" Eyes shining, he stops, coughs roughly. "All I'm saying is - I had help and I just want to pay it forward, I guess."

The nod Sam gives Steve is both resigned and full of sympathy, recognizing the emotional scars left by a hard life survived. "How can I say 'no' to that?"

More than one of the railroad workers makes a point of coming over to make sure they're alright as they limp back to the terminal; Dean looses count after a while. The story has spread like wild fire, just like any juicy gossip among a community of people who work closely together and are interested in everything that affects one of their own. Each one wants to express their outrage over the attack and to offer whatever assistance they can. Because of this and because of Sam's ambling gait, progress is slow.

All the attention makes Dean feel strange. He's used to living in the shadows, flying under the radar, and generally trying not to be noticed. Dad wouldn't be happy about this. Dean's stomach flutters uneasily. He hitches the borrowed coat up around his ears, scrunches down in the chair and tries to make himself into an inconspicuous lump. Sam's emotions are churning along similar lines.

Steve must see how uncomfortable they are because he begins running interference, heading people off and promising to convey their heartfelt apologies for the unfortunate event that had happened at _their_ station, as though they should have been able to prevent it simply due to the fact that good people work here. Tim continues to push Dean's chair and by the time they reach the quiet peace of his office they all look like they've run the gauntlet.

Sam pulls the scrap of paper he'd written Bobby's phone number on out of his pocket and takes a shallow breath, rubbing a hand lightly over his ribs as if coaxing them to behave. After waiting through what must have been twenty rings or so he shakes his head and hangs up.

"I need to make arrangement to take the rest of today and tomorrow off." Steve says on his way out the door. "Will you be okay to wait here for a bit?"

"I'm going to get you some water and aspirin." Tim twists the wedding band on his finger distractedly and follows Steve, leaving Sam and Dean alone for the first time since lunch.

Sam is perched on the edge of the desk closest to the door with his head hanging loosely on his neck, long, brown hair obscuring his face and Dean's chair is pushed at an angle on the opposite side of the heavy piece of office furniture. The distance seems like a gapping chasm.

"Sam? You okay?" His voice sounds thread-bare, tattered.

Sam's head comes up slowly, eyes fixing firmly on Dean's. "I'm fine kiddo, I promise. I don't know what those guys were trying to do, but they can't separate us that easily." There's finality in his words and a strength that Dean latches onto gratefully.

They each take a couple of aspirin with the water Tim brings back and it's not too long before Steve is ready to drive them to his place. Tim walks them to Steve's car and makes them promise to keep in touch. Yeah, it's a nice sentiment, not likely to happen though. No matter how much Dean wishes otherwise.

As soon as they get inside Steve's modest two-story house, his gaze is drawn to the family photos adorning the wall leading to the staircase. Dean is fascinated by the pictures other people choose to take and keep because he only has a small handful of snapshots taken of his family. He keeps them in a shoebox along with a few other prized possessions. The pictures he keeps in that shoebox tell everything about what he holds near and dear to his heart and he imagines that the pictures other people keep tell a story about what they treasure most in the world too.

The pictures on Steve's wall tell a story of a happy family, small but joyful. There are photos of the three of them together, father, mother and child. The Steve in those pictures is younger with thick black hair and twinkling eyes. The mother has an oval face and a button nose that turns up at the end. The child, a boy, has his father's dark hair and his mother's blue eyes. Many of the pictures are of just the boy; in a baseball uniform holding a bat and grinning proudly, wearing a suit with his hair combed carefully straight and parted on the side, formal school pictures and casual photos. The boy's age ranges from infant up to about twelve or thirteen, something like that.

"My son, Matt." Steve says, following Dean's gaze to a picture of the boy riding a bicycle. He smiles and it's the saddest smile Dean's ever seen.

Voice forcibly lighter, Steve says, "Okay, who's going to be the first to suffer through my questionable first aid skills?" He carries Dean into the living room and lowers him to a comfortable couch, careful to keep his left leg as straight as possible.

Crazy how even after almost two full days of being reliant on other people to cart him around, he just can't get used to the feeling of helplessness. His nerves jump and his skin crawls at the thought of what a vulnerable position they're in. He tries to act convincingly calm, but with John compromised and Sam out of commission, it's all up to him to keep them safe and he doesn't have a weapon, can't even _walk_.

Sam sits next to him gingerly, wincing at the pull on bruises and sore muscles. "Relax, kiddo. You take the weight of the world on your shoulders too quickly." He whispers for Dean's ears only then turns to answer Steve's question. "Let's take a look at Dean's leg first. I haven't been able to do a proper job of it myself."

"Yeah, I have some clothes he can change into. I'll be right back." When Steve returns he's carrying an armful of clothes. He rummages through the pile until he finds what he's looking for and tosses a pair of soft sweat pants and a fleece hooded sweat shirt over the back of the sofa and into Sam's lap. "They were Matt's." The simple statement hangs in the air as though waiting for someone to attach the significant meaning onto it that it deserves. Before Sam or Dean can think of what to say, Steve disappears down the hall again. "First aid kit." He calls in explanation for his departure.

Dean looks around the room, wondering where Matt might be. He cocks his head at Sam and Sam returns the unspoken question with a raised eyebrow and a slight frown.

Getting the blue jeans off is just as much of a royal pain as Dean thought it would be, pain being the operative word. The drag of the jeans against his knee causes the kneecap to shift and grate, pulling tendons and cartilage into unnatural configurations. He holds his breath and closes his eyes as the pain jolts through him and he swears every nerve ending in his body including the ones in his hair are standing on end, electrified and raw, by the time it's over.

Sam's hushed "Jesus" makes Dean open his eyes and look at the disfigured joint. The sight does what all the yanking to get the jeans off hadn't accomplished, it pulls a moan from his throat and he's suddenly cold and tingly all over. "Shhhh, it's okay. Close your eyes." Sam soothes and gets him lying down just as Steve reenters the room toting a large white box with a big red plus sign on the cover. He can't even be embarrassed because he's concentrating so hard on taking the deep breaths Sam is coaching him through.

The sweat pants are a size too big on him, loose but warm and comfy. He snuggles into the fleece hoodie and closes his eyes because Sam told him too, not because he's tired. And besides it's the middle of the afternoon and he's not going to nap. Dean Winchester hasn't needed an afternoon nap since he was four years old. Letting himself drift, he feels the tug of ace bandages being applied and hears the muffled whispering of conversation.

He must sleep through the treatment of Sam's injuries because the next thing he know someone is carrying him – probably Steve – and chuckling quietly. "Yeah, the bed in the guest room is big enough to fit you both. I think Siamese twins are less attached to each other than the two of you."

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. Your reviews are the reward for the hard work of writing and a wonderful reward at that!**


	7. Beyond Empathy

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! Now that Hellatus is upon us, I hope you get some entertainment and enjoyment from my little story.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 7 Beyond Empathy**

_His dad is staked out in a woodsy clearing, arms tied out to his sides and head dangling limply as though he's been there for a while, days maybe. A bonfire crackles and pops nearby, Sam can feel the heat from the flames as they dance among the pile of rotten logs, he can see the smoke shift with the changing direction of the wind. His attention is drawn to a group of people just entering the clearing. He recognizes about half of them - the four men who had tried to abduct Dean at the railway station. The other four are women and he's pretty sure he's never seen them before, they don't seem familiar at any rate._

_A man wearing a mud brown parka, fur lined hood pulled over his head, saunters up to John. He's the guy who tried to sneak up behind Sam at the station. "Your kids are more wily than we gave them credit for. They got away again." Despite the nature of his words the man looks more amused than angry, smug even._

_John lifts his head with what appears to take every ounce of strength he has left and growls, "You leave my kids alone."_

"_No can do Johnny boy. They have an important role to play and once we get our hands on'em we can finish tenderizing them, get'em good and bloody in time for our Halloween party."_

"_If you dare touch…"_

"_It's a little late for that. We've already had some fun and we have more planned. So much more. Besides, when are we ever going to have the chance to toy with a hunter's children again? Especially a hunter as notorious as the great John Winchester."_

_There's a partially healed gash on the side of his father's head. One of the women smiles sweetly and runs her fingers along the crusty edge until it begins to seep sticky red fluid. John groans and twitches in his bindings, but there isn't anything he can do to stop his tormentor. Her grin widens, becomes feral, and she smears the blood with her fingertips, lifts them to her mouth._

Sam awakens from his dream slowly, as if his dream and reality are in an evenly matched tug of war with his consciousness. The sounds of his father's futile protests swirl around and intermingle with a murmured conversation between Dean and Steve. For a while Sam lies there trying to parse the two together, trying to make sense out of why his brother and Steve have appeared in the clearing with his dad and hoping they haven't been captured as well.

He's still so tired, his head aches and his eyelids feel like they have weights attached to them. Sleep beckons.

"Try to relax, the muscle is all bunched up."

"I can't. It hurts."

Dean's muffled whimper jolts Sam fully awake and he rolls toward his brother's voice, hissing as his bruised ribs take the brunt of the sudden movement. "What's goin' on?" He grumbles, exhaustion making him sound like a grumpy six year old. Huh, irony anyone?

Entire body rigid on the queen sized bed next to him, Dean is on his stomach with his face smooshed into a pillow which is probably why his voice is so muffled. Steve is kneeling next to the bed, massaging the calf of Dean's injured leg with a grimace on his face that looks as though he'd happily absorb the pain through the palms of his hands if it meant he could spare the young boy who is currently muffling his cries into the pillow.

"Charlie horse." Steve says, glancing over at Sam. "I heard noises coming from your room and thought I'd better check on you guys. I don't think Dean wanted to wake you up."

It bothers him that Dean would rather suffer by himself than wake him up. It bothers him even more that he didn't wake up as soon as his brother needed him. How their bond failed to warn him he has no idea. He had been tired, but he hadn't been _that_ tired. Not tired enough to sleep through noises that Steve heard from down the hall and through a closed door. His dream must have had a pretty strong hold on him, his ultra realistic and vivid dream…

"Ahhhh!" Dean cries out again, punching the mattress with one fist and Sam's heart lurches against his ribcage.

"Sorry, I've almost got it, just a little longer, hang in there." Steve rambles a string of hopeful yet ineffective prattle and then turns to Sam to explain. "The muscle is tied in a knot. If he could relax I could work the knot out, but I think his knee is making it worse, a vicious circle of pain and stress and tension."

"Do you have a heating pad?" Sam asks, moving in to replace Steve's hands on Dean's calf.

"Yeah, I'll go get it."

The muscle is a hard, tight bundle under his hand. It feels like a tiny slinky that someone has pulled straight and released to form a chaotic snarl. Sam can't even imagine how much it must hurt what with the dislocated kneecap on the same leg.

He pours calm and relaxation through their connection, envisions it flowing from his hands and into his brother like sand filling a bucket. They've never tried anything like this and he's not sure it's going to work, but even if it only helps a little bit it'll be worth the effort. He wills a sense of serenity into the boy. It's different from what they normally do because it's not so much letting Dean feel Sam's emotions as it is trying to make Dean feel something he can't feel by himself. It's not so much pushing his feelings _at_ Dean as it is pushing his feelings _into_ him. The distinction is subtle yet all-encompassing.

Dean shudders and curls his upper body forward, reaches around to grasp Sam's wrist. "Sam," he says as though he's whispering a heart-felt prayer.

"I know kiddo. I know it hurts. Just…take a deep breath and hold it. I'm going to try to release the tension." Composed and centered, Sam breathes in at the same time Dean does and presses the thumbs of both his hands into the tight coil of muscle. The slender calf jerks desperately and Dean grits his teeth through a moan. Holding the boy's leg as steady as he can, Sam kneads his thumbs firmly into the knot and feels it give slightly so he follows through, continues to press and knead and stroke the muscle while sending thoughts of sedate tranquility along his connection with his brother in an ever strengthening stream.

He's so intent on what he's doing that he doesn't hear Steve come quietly into the room to stand discretely behind him until the muscle loosens and lays flat beneath his probing fingers.

"Ohhh," Dean sighs on a long exhale. Relief flutters languidly across their bond.

Steve plugs in the heating pad and positions it under Dean's leg, rolling the boy, limbs now pliable and slack, onto his back where the pad can do the most good pressed against the quivering calf muscle. "There now, that's better." He says and smoothes the blanket back into place, lays a lingering hand on Dean's cheek, the gesture so ripe with longing that Sam aches to see it although he doesn't quite know why, before retiring to his own bedroom.

"How're you feeling, kiddo?" Sam asks, cautious.

The mellow, heavy-lidded gaze his brother bestows on him reminds Sam of the way Dean had acted in the hospital dosed up on anti-anxiety drugs after his first run in with the vengeful spirit two years ago. "Good." The corners of the boy's lips turn up in a lazy, goofy expression as his eyes slide shut.

Sam can't help but smile at the blissed-out look on his brother's face and he tries to ignore the fretful icicles of dread creeping along his spine. What has he just done?

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Steve fixes them bacon, eggs and toast for breakfast once the sun crests the horizon, orange juice for Dean and coffee for Sam. Everything tastes wonderful. Even though he's still tired from the strange night, his bizarre dreams and Dean's painful muscle spasm, he feels much better overall for the rest and the care shown by Steve.

The bruises he is now sporting match Dean's in abundance and variety of colors. A black eye had stared back at him from the bathroom mirror earlier, the shiner easily recognizable despite the ice pack Steve had given him last night. The purples and reds of the bruise on his jaw are also hard to overlook. His ribs are the worst though, tender and sore. For as much as they aren't broken, they're still preventing ease of movement, keeping him from being able to look after Dean the way he'd like to and making them both somewhat dependent on Steve. He and his brother look like they've been through the wringer and that's not so far off from the truth.

Dean seems chipper at the breakfast table, all trace of his calm stupor gone. The results of whatever crazy mind mojo Sam had inadvertently forced upon his brother hadn't lasted through the night. Thankfully. And Dean doesn't mention it; doesn't say he felt weird or ask what Sam did to him and Sam's not sure how to bring it up without freaking himself and his brother out.

He will eventually, they'll need to talk about the implications, just not yet.

"Can we go to Bobby's now?" Dean eagerly pops the last bite of toast into his mouth.

"You sure I can't talk you into sticking around a while longer?" Steve picks up the empty plates and takes them to the sink, nonchalant in a very purposeful way. "I've been thinking about what you asked me yesterday, about whether there's any work for you to do around here."

The railroad man doesn't understand their lives, he doesn't know the kind of danger John is in, the urgency required. Sam can't blame him for trying to keep them here when all he's trying to do is help. A part of him wishes they could take their benefactor up on his offer.

Dean's eyes get big and Sam starts shaking his head to forestall his brother's emphatic reaction. "No, we have to be getting on. I'd like to pay you back for your kindness. Maybe we'll make it back this way someday." He doesn't mean for it to sound so melancholy, so dejected.

Steve regards them both closely and adds, "It's just that my brother-in-law has a farm the next county over. Grows corn, soy beans, raises some pigs. He's always looking for help, doesn't ask too many questions. You could rest up here for a couple days and once you're feeling up to it, I could take you over and introduce you." Furrowing his brow, the man turns away slightly as if anticipating the negative answer, steeling himself for rejection.

Voice soft and projecting an unusual amount of compassion for his age, Dean says, "Steve, we can't stay. My Dad needs us." His brother's eyes are liquid, somber and ageless. They exude a beseeching quality, a magnetic pull that captivates Sam for a moment.

If Steve's next words are anything to go by, he feels the boy's influence just as deeply.

"I know you have to go. I had to try though. I couldn't let you leave without giving it a try." The man nods and tosses the dish rag from his shoulder onto the countertop. "This belongs to you." He opens a drawer near the sink to remove the glock and hands it to Sam who quickly tucks it into the waistband at the small of his back where it slots into place like the missing piece of a puzzle. "I picked it up after the fight. Didn't want anyone to see it and bring on more trouble. Reckon you boys have enough of that to last you a lifetime and then some." As if it's as simple as that Steve drags a hand across his mustache and says, "Let's get this show on the road then."

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Steve is as good as his word and they pull up to Bobby's scrap yard three hours later with Sam giving directions and pointing out the turns.

They're only about halfway down the long gravel drive leading to their friend's business and home when Dean leans forward from the back seat, pointing, he says, "Dad's here."

Sure enough, the shinny, black Chevy Impala is parked at the side of the house, surrounded by other cars, inconspicuous with only its nose sticking around the corner as if it got impatient while playing hide and seek. Trust Dean to spot the car amongst all the others from such a distance.

Torn between wanting to tell Steve to throw his Dodge Lancer into reverse and spit gravel in their haste to get away and wanting to rush into the house in the hopes that their dad is really and truly back in all senses of the word, Sam compromises. "Stop here."

The car rolls to a stop but continues to idle as Steve sits on the brake, hands griping the wheel tightly. All three of them stare at the blistered paint on the deceptively run-down house. Even though it may not look like much, the house contains mysteries beyond most people's imaginings.

A loud banging noise makes them jump. The screen door is flung aside and their father is framed in the doorway for long indecisive seconds. Bobby appears behind him and then their dad is moving. They watch as if frozen as the giant grizzly bear of a man comes charging toward the car, impressive in stature as well as demeanor. Dean is staring at the man like he's studying for a test that his life depends on his passing.

Steve shifts nervously in his seat. "That's Dean's dad?" He asks without taking his eyes from the rapidly approaching figure.

"Yeah." At least it's possible that figure is their dad. There's also a pretty good chance it's not. Sam can't be sure one way or the other. "Stay here." He says and then does the only thing he can under the circumstances. In keeping with priority number one, he opens his car door and quickly moves to intercept John before the man can make it all the way to the car and Dean.

The smell hits him from ten feet away. John reeks of cheap whiskey, thick and cloying as if he's been bathing in the stuff. His head-long rush stutters and stops at Sam's advance. "Where in blue blazes have you been?" He bellows. "I've been out of my mind looking for you. Can you even imagine how I felt coming back to that empty motel room? Do you have any idea what that was like for me?" He teeters sideways as though the dirt beneath his feet is pitching and yawing, catches himself improbably and squints red-rimmed eyes at the car.

Sam wishes he could say he's never seen his dad like this, wishes this was abnormal behavior and he could use its existence to deny the man in front of them as their father. But that just isn't the case. If anything, it may prove the opposite is true.

Bobby clumps up and puts a hand on Sam's shoulder. "Sam, it's good to see you son. You're daddy's been worried." His words are weighted with meaning, but what that meaning is exactly escapes Sam.

"Is Dean in the car?" John takes a step forward, gestures widely with one hand and nearly loses his balance. "Dean, get out here right now! That's an order!" He yells.

Sam pushes hesitance, patience, and caution _at_ Dean, gently and carefully avoids pushing the emotions _into_ his brother. He's unwilling to make that mistake a second time. _Stay put._

The driver's side door and the back door of the Dodge open at the same time. Sam grits his teeth and tries not to feel betrayed. Apparently Dean is ignoring Sam's order in favor of his father's and Steve isn't content to stay safely in the vehicle while the boy goes to meet his fate. It's all beginning to feel like a bad farce that's spiraling out of control.

Steve makes a move to pick Dean up out of habit, but Dean evades his outstretched arms and shuffles a couple of steps using the car for support. "Dad? You're here?"

The question is much more complicated that it seems because of the underlying doubt regarding which version of their father is here or, asked another way, whether this is their real dad or the imposter. Only Sam and Dean are privy to all the different layers involved.

Sam needs to grapple this situation back into some semblance of control quickly. He still has the gun and since it worked to dissuade the pretender last time he has no reason to think it won't work again if it comes to that. That knowledge makes it easier for him to put his haphazard plan into action. Play it cool, stay alert.

"John, Bobby, this is Steve. He's helping us out of a jam by giving us a lift." Sam hopes the introductions will diffuse their father's volatile temper. The man is unpredictable when he's drunk.

Steve and Bobby shake hands, then Steve and John. The later is stilted and gruff, the two men seemingly measuring and taking notes.

"Mighty good of you to help our boys out." Bobby inserts himself between them. "Can you come in for a bit? Take a load off and let me get you something to eat for your troubles."

"Don't mind if I do, although it wasn't any trouble. I was happy to be able to help." Dropping his hands to Dean's shoulders, Steve smiles down at the boy. "Your son is a pleasure, but I'm sure you already know that."

In an unprecedented move, Dean leans into Steve's touch and Sam is floored for a moment. The shy, comfort-seeking gesture is unusual coming from his brother, extraordinary in that the recipient is not Sam.

John's eyes narrow, but he nods his agreement and seems to deflate some. "Right, he's a good kid, does what he's told most of the time."

"Sam, can I have a word with you, please?" Steve tightens his fingers on Dean's shoulders. It's a promise to the boy and a clear signal to everyone else.

John looks like he's about to protest, but Bobby links an arm around the taller hunter's neck and starts steering him up to the house. "Sure, take as long as you need. John and I are going to put a pot of coffee on and scrounge up something to feed everyone."

Sam is surprised by how easily John gives up on his tirade. Undoubtedly the man is merely saving it all for later. He sends a silent 'thank you' to Bobby for his presence of mind.

"That's Dean's dad?" Steve asks for the second time like he's really hoping for a different answer this time.

Sam wants to tell Steve that he's not certain whether it is or isn't. He wants to open his heart and explain…everything. "He's not always like that," is what he says instead and tugs his brother into a shuddering hug.

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. This chapter was interesting to write because while on the surface it doesn't seem as though much is happening, there are several not-so-subtle reveals at the beginning. I'd be interested to hear your take on what's going on with Sam in this chapter and what you think about the newest development in the brothers' bond.**


	8. It All Comes Crashing Down

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoy this chapter.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 8 It All Comes Crashing Down**

Their considerable distance from Bobby's house doesn't stop the angry tirade from reaching them. His dad's voice is loud and strident, the meaning clear even if the words are indecipherable. John is furious in a way which would normally have Dean doing whatever it took to diffuse the situation. As it is, the sound scrapes across his eardrums like sandpaper and he stiffens, pulling back slightly from Sam's encircling hold so he can look up into his brother's face.

Sam's eyes are darting from the house where John and Bobby had disappeared only moments ago to Steve who is standing nearby with his mouth hanging open to Dean where they finally come to rest and soften. The emotions Dean can feel coming from his brother when he opens the link between them are a worried kind of disappointment that is skewed toward weary disheartenment with a heavy dose of the ever present protective determination. The gist is clear, Sam is tired and he feels like he has to protect Dean…again.

Resolve courses through his bones as Dean watches the young man in front of him begin to square his shoulders in preparation to take on whatever trouble is brewing inside the house and he's had enough. He can't take one more second of standing idly by and allowing his brother to do his job, the job that Dean is meant to do. It's his responsibility to take care of his family and he's going to do it no matter what the cost.

Steve is a good man, a good friend. He doesn't deserve to bear witness to whatever is about to happen, whether that be their drunken father taking his frustrations out on his sons or a monster tearing off its John disguise and trying to rip Dean apart. Either way, Dean figures it's his burden and no one else's.

The respite he'd had with Steve was no more than an illusion, a fairytale. He's angry at himself for letting the railroad worker get so involved. He's even angrier at himself for enjoying it as much as he has. The fact that he'd wanted it for his brother as much as for himself doesn't make it any more attainable.

That life is a life that doesn't belong to him, a shoe that doesn't fit and suddenly he feels like the ugly stepsister in a Disney story – well, except for the girl part. He's not a chick. So it's time to stop dreaming and get back to reality, his reality.

Pasting a cocky smile on his face, he pretends his father is _not_ screaming bloody murder in Bobby's house. "You don't need to come in with us. We're good from here." If he could send Sammy away too he would, but he's not foolish enough to think his brother would go. He'll just have to find a way to get in between his dad and his brother when the time comes. It's not like he hasn't done this sort of thing before.

"I'm not leaving you here, Dean." Steve's gaze reluctantly slides from the source of the yelling and comes to rest on Dean's upturned face. "There was nothing I could do when my only son died of leukemia but watch him suffer." His eyes fill with tears and he rubs a shaking hand over his shaved head. The moment drags out for a while as the burly railroad worker regains his composure. "Now there's something I can do about this and I'm not letting the two of you go into that house. I'm not going to walk away and just let this happen. I can't."

Dean feels the grin on his face crack into a million pieces. The stark loss radiating from the man who has been so kind to them hits him with all the weight of a sledge hammer. Lifting a hand to touch his friend's arm, he whispers, "I'm sorry."

Sam reaches over Dean's head to lay a sympathetic hand on Steve's shoulder. He doesn't say anything though and Dean gets it. There's nothing to say that can make Steve feel any better or make his pain go away. There's no vengeance to be vowed or justice to be granted and the only comfort to be given is the comfort of understanding and shared sorrow.

The silence is finally broken by Steve, his voice thick. He nods his head, wiping the back of his hand across his eyes. "I'll take you back to my place. We'll give Dean's dad some time to cool off, sober up, then we'll come back."

Dean can only imagine how his father will react if they try to get back into the Lancer and drive off. The fit John must currently be throwing at Bobby will look like a friendly game of poker by comparison. He thrusts his cold hands deep into the pockets of the coat Steve had lent him before they left his house that morning. Matt's coat. "It'll only be worse if we go now." He tries to explain without explaining anything.

"Hey, at least John is here. We don't have to go looking for him. That's better than we expected, right?" Sam tilts his head questioningly, almost like he does when he is six year old Sammy looking to his big brother for advice.

And he's right. This is better in a lot of ways. They know where dad is, even if they still don't have a clue as to what dad is. They have Bobby for back up - hopefully. Dean nods. "We have to go in. _I_ have to go in," he amends, looking at the pale blue house with its grimy windows.

"We'll _all_ go in then," Steve says so firmly that Dean knows there's no chance of changing the man's mind. "Besides, who else are you going to get to cart you around?" He asks in a playful manner while gently lifting Dean up and securing his busted knee in an immobile hold at his side for the walk to the house.

Dean gives his self-appointed pack mule a petulant scowl but it's just for show and he's pretty sure Steve knows it because he cocks an eyebrow and winks at Sam. Truthfully, the release of pressure on his knee from being picked up doesn't come a moment too soon. The joint is throbbing with the sensation of jagged glass imbedded under the skin and every second he'd spent trying to support himself had been agony as the loosened tendons threatened to give way even with the tightly wrapped ace bandage. His ankle is still swollen and hot inside his sneaker, making it feel as though flames are licking the bottom of his foot.

Of its own accord, a sigh slips from his lips and he relaxes into Steve's arms. He can tell Sam is surprised by his easy surrender - and maybe a little hurt by it - the same as he was surprised by the way Dean had leaned into Steve's touch earlier. He's a bit surprised at himself really, but the way he sees it, this is a once in a lifetime chance so he might as well savor the feeling of extended family and leech a few more drops of caring out of Steve while he can. Soon enough it'll be gone. This is his way of saying good-bye to the fantasy of a life he can never have.

After clearing his throat, Sam speaks up. "Hey Steve, if you're coming with us there's something I need to tell you. I know you think we're dealing with a drunk or possibly an abusive father situation." His brother rubs a hand along his strong jaw line, scratches the back of his neck. Dean wonders how Sam is going to come up with the words to warn Steve of what may be coming. "Actually, it could be something much worse than that. You have to promise me that if things start to go sideways in some terribly strange way you won't stick around to ask questions. If things start getting weird - dangerous - promise me you'll take Dean and run. Take him back to your house, trust me to handle this and I'll come find you when it's over."

Steve says a hesitant, "I promise," at the same time as Dean shakes his head vehemently. No, that's not the way this is supposed to go down. No way.

The railway worker simply tightens his hold and starts walking up the long gravel and dirt path to Bobby's front door, Sam a step in front on him.

Bobby meets them on the front porch, stands with his feet spread apart and his arms out to the side like he's become a brick wall that they won't be allowed to pass. The older hunter eyes Dean being carried by Steve. Something that looks like concern flickers swiftly across his face and then he turns to Sam. "We need to talk."

Their father's howls have become quieter, but now that they're closer the words are clear. "Bobby, let me out of here. You're making a big mistake. Huge."

Sam appears to be trying to catch a glimpse inside the gloomy confines of Bobby's house when he asks, "What's going on, Bobby?"

"That ain't your daddy in there, is it?" Bobby answers Sam's question with one of his own.

A miniature whirlwind sends a pile of brown, brittle leaves skittering across the scrap yard. They dance in a widening circle nearby, reminding Dean of fairies at play. Or maybe imps. He shudders and a spike of queasiness rattles him. He wants his brother. He wishes Sam was standing closer so he could touch his hand, needing the contact and the reassurance only Sam can give.

"We aren't sure. What makes you think he isn't? Sam's attention is riveted to Bobby once more, his gaze intense.

"I didn't just start hunting yesterday, you know?" Irritated, Bobby presses his lips together in a disgruntled frown. "He passed all the normal tests, holy water, salt, silver, but something was…off. Wrong. For one thing, no way in hell would your daddy camp out at my place drinking like a reject from a frat house when you two boys were missing. He gave me some song and dance about it being a difficult time for him and how he was sure you'd come 'round here eventually. I didn't buy into his nonsense, not for a minute. And then the two of you show up here, Sam's Wish has kicked in and he's in full-on protective mode and Dean's as wobbly as a stool with one leg cut off. Doesn't take a brain surgeon to put those pieces together." The gruff hunter rocks back on his heels and pulls the bill of his cap, setting it more firmly on his head with an air of finality as though everything has now been fully explained.

Dean cringes at the wobbly stool analogy and Steve shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot, looking really confused. "Wait, so…that's _not_ Dean's dad?"

A series of staccato bangs precedes John's voice which sounds as though it's coming from behind a wall. He's changed tactics and is now talking in a rational, cajoling tone. "I know you're out there Dean, Sam. I can hear your frightened little hearts beating." The crackle of splintered laughter reaches their ears. "Come on, let me out of here. Your crazy Uncle Bobby has locked me in the closet. You know how he can be sometimes." There's another burst of banging noises and Dean assumes the pretender is either kicking or beating at the door of whatever space Bobby has him locked in.

"If that isn't John then why does it look like John and how does it know so much about us? It knew we'd come here. How did it know we would come here?" Sam gives voice to some of the questions swirling around Dean's mind.

"And where is my dad?" Dean adds for good measure. Might as well get it all out there, no point in holding anything back.

Bobby locks eyes with Steve. It's obvious to Dean that the hunter is sizing the other man up, taking in the defensive posture and the shielding way in which Dean is being carried and trying to determine how much to say in front of him. "How much have they told you?"

"I'm beginning to think there's a lot I don't know." The resignation in Steve's voice is rapidly replaced with determination as he continues. "I'm here for these boys though, whatever it takes."

"Okay." The older hunter draws the word out like he's not quite convinced, turns a penetrating stare on Sam, and lowers his voice to barely a whisper. Dean has to lean awkwardly in Steve's arms to catch the hoarse conversation. "I don't know who or what I just locked in my closet. I've been trying to figure it out ever since it got here last night, going along with its game and hoping it'd slip up and give itself away. Once you boys got here though, I couldn't continue to let it walk around free so I sprung my trap and got it locked up good and tight." Bobby smoothed a hand down his beaded face and across his chin. "Like I said, no reaction to holy water or salt so it's not a demon, no reaction to silver so it's not a shapeshifter. Do you know what your old man was hunting last time you saw him?"

"He didn't say. You know how he can be with his need-to-know-basis military bunk." Sam chips a bit of peeling, white paint off the doorframe with his thumbnail and Bobby frowns, but doesn't tell him to stop.

John calls out, "Anybody ever tell you it's rude to whisper? Let me out and let's talk, man to man, before I get my eye poked out by a coat hanger in here."

Giving the hem of his faded flannel shirt a brief tug, Bobby shakes his head slowly. "Might be best to just ask it outright. I wouldn't hold my breath on getting any kind of truth out of it, but it's worth a shot."

Sam swallows hard and steps past the whiskered hunter who stands aside for him to pass.

"You comin'?" Bobby asks Steve, a wary expression on his lined face.

Steve nods and walks inside, holding Dean firmly at his side.

The house seems dreary, gloomier than Dean remembers. He wonders whether the entranceway to Bobby's house has always given off the impression of a cave or if the oppressive feeling has something to do with the thing impersonating his dad. Wallpaper is peeling from the walls in patches and Dean is having trouble remembering whether these rooms looked this shabby the last time they were here. Unbidden, a picture of Steve's bright, clean home pops into his mind. He chances a quick glance at Steve from the corner of his eye, but his friend is being carefully neutral, his face a mask of indifference.

They don't need Bobby to tell them which door the imposter is behind because the banging and bumping sounds of fists hitting wood make it pretty obvious. The closet is off the hallway leading to the downstairs bedroom. There are sigils and runes etched into the molding around the doorframe.

The older hunter cocks his head to indicate the carved wood and says, "Don't worry, it won't be able to get out."

Sam runs his fingertips along the edge of one of the symbols. Dean recognizes it as a containment rune and he's sure Sam knows what it is as well. That particular containment rune is part of a set of runes in a book Dad had made them memorize the previous summer. A book he'd borrowed from Bobby. Yeah, whatever that thing is, it won't be getting out of the experienced hunter's trap unless Bobby decides to let it out.

"What are you and where is John?" Sam tosses the questions at the closed door as though they were fire crackers or better yet hand grenades and then waits for them to explode on impact.

"I _am_ John Winchester and you'd best unlock this door right now or you'll be doing training maneuvers until you reach the ripe old age of sixty-five, **Sammy**." The emphasis on Sam's nickname is deliberate. John's clone knows about the Wish, it knows about Sam's transformation. How it knows is what worries Dean.

Ignoring the niggling doubt, Dean says, "You're not my dad!"

"What makes you say that, Dean? Because I didn't come looking for you right away after you ran off?" Disgust taints John's voice. "Because I choose to enjoy a little down time without you two brats nipping at my heels? Did it ever occur to you what a pain in my backside you are? Maybe I was happy you were gone. Maybe I was glad to be rid of you."

All the blood drains from Dean's face, leaving him feeling sick and lightheaded because he's wondered if his dad felt that way, there have been times when he's definitely gotten that impression from his father. But to actually hear the words said out loud in his dad's voice…shakes him to his core. "Shut up." The hollow quality of his own voice makes Dean tighten his hands into fists just to prove he still has substance, that he's not about to disappear from the inside out.

"Being anywhere near you makes my head ache. Did you know that?" John's bitter rant continues regardless. "I've devoted the last six years of my life to training you, countless hours, and look where it's gotten me. Absolutely nowhere. A waste of my time." He sneers.

Instead of the sheltering embrace of mere moments ago, Steve's arms now feel like a constricting vice around his waist, claustrophobic. He can't breathe, can't breathe, _can't breathe_.

"Down, put me down." He chokes out and pushes hard against Steve's chest when the man doesn't comply quickly enough. "Put me down!"

Steve's grip only tightens so Dean begins to thrash desperately. He wants to get out of this house. He can't listen to another word. He doesn't want to hear what he fears may be the truth.

Through the ringing in his ears he hears Sam say, "It's okay Steve, put him down."

As soon as his feet touch the ground a warning flare of pain shoots from his ankle up to his knee and back down again. Sam puts a hand on the back of his neck. "Easy Dean, take it easy kiddo."

He brushes off the light touch easily as it was meant to sooth not restrain. He makes it five steps, six, seven steps towards the kitchen and the back door - freedom - before something in his knee pops. The sensation is so intense he swears he can hear the ligaments snap like rubber bands and then his leg disappears from under him, sending him wind milling gracelessly to the ground.

Helplessly lying on the floor, incapable of even getting out of the house by himself, Dean decides there's nothing for it but to employ a defensive strategy. He begins to build up his barricades higher than they've ever been, closing the shutters and drawing the blinds. It's a coping mechanism he hasn't used in a long time, not since his bond with Sammy made it irrelevant, but desperate times call for desperate measures and all that kind of stuff.

His own dad doesn't care about him, so why is he trying so very hard? It doesn't make any sense. He doesn't want for other people to matter to him anymore, it hurts too much. He imagines every one of his cares, worries, dreams, and hopes as a candle flickering in the darkness and one by one he snuffs them all out. The ensuing darkness engulfs him like a wave he can drown under and it's good.

He's numb and the room is spinning lazily around him. It's perfect. He can't feel a thing.

And then Sam is in his face yelling at him to, "Breathe Dean! Do you hear me? Don't do this, don't you give up. You breathe! Please!"

Dean doesn't understand why Sam sounds so frantic. Everything is all right. He wants to let his brother know that he's fine, he's calm and there's no need to worry, but when he opens his mouth no sound comes out.

Through a dense cloud of hazy detachment, Dean watches as Bobby stomps closer. His hand rears back and then flies forward in a stinging slap right across Dean's face.

Gasping in a deep breath which causes his lungs to burn, Dean stares at Bobby in disbelief. He'd thought Bobby liked him.

"I'm sorry, I really am, but it had to be done." The older hunter rubs his hands together as though he can erase his actions or maybe the cause of them.

Sam's blue-green eyes are blazing and his long hair is a tangled mess.

All those cares and worries and dreams and hopes begin to crash back into him like ten thousand anvils falling from the sky and with them comes the pain. A pathetic whining sound finally breaks free from his throat and Dean is immediately humiliated by it. He tries to swallow it down which only results in a choking, hitching moan.

Sam's face crumbles and his arms open. Dean curls up against his brother, closes his eyes and fights the tears for all he's worth. Crying won't solve anything and he's too old for it anyway. He's too old to sob into his brother's shoulder. Much too old.

A large hand cups his chin and Sam's strong fingers gently trail over the reddening hand print on his cheek, soothing the sting away.

When he opens his eyes sometime later he sees Steve leaning against a wall with his head in his hands. Bobby is standing nearby holding out a glass of water and a couple of pills. "Take these Dean. We need to do something about your leg and then you boys need to tell me everything you can think of, everything that's happened from the very beginning. We're going to figure this thing out."

To be continued.

**A/N: Hopefully this chapter answered some of you questions. Please leave me some feedback on your way out. I couldn't do this without your support and encouragement!**


	9. A Vision is Worth a Thousand Words

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds. Show level gore in this chapter.**

**A/N: To those of you who are still reading: Thank you for sticking with me. I apologize for the long wait in between chapters. I was on a forced break due to some surgery, but am healing nicely and busy writing once again. Hopefully this chapter will be worth the wait. Happy reading!**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 9 A Vision is Worth a Thousand Words**

Sam grunts and braces his ribs with one arm as he gets to his feet. Dean's eyes are dry and vacant, but the truly scary emotions, the ruthless despondency and abject depression, are no longer slithering like slimy worms along the empathic connection he has with his brother.

He understands Dean's need to escape, he could sense the barriers hastily being erected and the desperate withdrawal into the barricaded space within his head that quickly seemed to spiral out of Dean's control. He knows his brother didn't mean to shut down completely, to check out the way he did, he just got lost in the process, too intent on distancing himself and shoring up his defenses to halt the course of action once it had started.

Bruised ribs or no bruised ribs, Sam takes a deep breath and leans down to scoop up the huddled ten year old, clutching the boy in a firm yet gentle hold. "I'm going to take care of you, kiddo. Everything's going to be all right." He whispers into Dean's ear. His shattered brother is struggling to hold himself together in any way he can think of and Sam needs to do something to help him or his Wish and their bond and everything they've gone through together will have been for nothing, pointless because Dean will have disappeared..

John is still spouting a venomous diatribe and Sam tries really hard not to listen to any of it. He looks down at Dean who is staring straight ahead at nothing in particular, seemingly oblivious to everyone including John or at least pretending to be.

"I need to get Dean away from that." Sam juts his chin in the direction of the closet as if there were any doubt as to what he might be talking about. He should have known better than to think John's double would only be a physical threat. He hadn't considered the power of its words alone and for his lapse in judgment Dean had paid a heavy price.

"Upstairs." Bobby's voice is rough as he leads the way to the second floor spare room.

Sam can't help but glare at the older hunter's back for a split second before following him. Bobby had only done what he felt needed to be done to break through Dean's crippling and possibly deadly lassitude. Sam knows that. Still, he hasn't quite forgiven the man for hitting the boy, not yet.

As though he can read Sam's mind, Bobby says, "I hated having to do that, you know. I'd rather shoot myself than hurt either of you boys." There's a ring of truth in that statement and the ice around Sam's heart thaws a little.

"I know." He concedes.

Steve's boots make a clumping sound on the hard, wooden stairs behind him. Sam can't blame the man one little bit for not wanting to stay alone anywhere in the vicinity of John and his tirade. He's actually baffled by why the railway worker from the tiny town where things are usually quiet and peaceful hasn't asked more questions or bolted back to his normal life by now. Why he hasn't denounced them all as a bunch of raving lunatics, what with the talk of demons and shape shifters and with locking Dean's father (who really isn't his father) in a closet, is a mystery, one that Sam isn't going to question at the moment because Dean seems to be taking a measure of comfort from the man's presence.

That line of thought brings up another question. "Hey, Bobby, how did you get John locked in that closet so fast? We were only outside talking for a couple of minutes before we heard him start hollering and then you were standing on the porch by the time we got to the house."

Hand trailing on the banister, Bobby glances back at him with a wry grin. "This old dog knows a few tricks."

"You're not that old." Sam feels obligated to point out, after all Bobby's most likely only in his forties.

"Yeah well, I feel about as old as the hills and then some." The other man takes his cap off to scratch the crown of his head, sighing gustily. "Anyway, I had the trap all set and waiting. Told him I had some more booze stashed in that closet as soon we got back to the house and he went willingly enough, more interested in continuing his drinking binge than he was with helping me fix something to eat. All I had to do was give him a shove, close the door, and put the final cross hatch on the containment rune. Whatever it is, it isn't the brightest bulb if you get my meaning."

"It's smart enough to know we'd come here eventually." This creature's ability to track them down is still really bothering Sam because it knows way too much about them. It knows things only their dad could know. "How could it know that?"

"How about we save that question for later and concentrate on Dean's leg for now. One thing at a time."

With a start Sam realizes they're already standing in the spare bedroom. He'd just been following along behind Bobby without paying much attention to where his feet were taking him. Like many of the rooms in Bobby's house this one is decorated in dark colors, the headboard and side table are stained a deep mahogany and the curtains are navy blue. There is no overhead light and the blinds are drawn, giving the room the impression of twilight despite the early hour. Bobby switches on a lamp beside the bed and the room brightens tremendously.

This room is on the opposite side of the house from the downstairs closet so even if John's look-alike is still talking its voice doesn't carry all the way up here and that's certainly a blessing.

Dean is a limp weight in his arms and the boy doesn't attempt to shift into a more comfortable position when Sam lowers him onto the blue and green striped bedspread, just continues to stare at some point over Sam's right shoulder through dull, unfocused eyes.

Fear blossoms in Sam's chest as he watches his brother. "Dean." Speaking softly, Sam sits on the edge of the bed and tests their empathic connection. Through it he senses that Dean is still fully with them as opposed to camped out behind his barriers, but his normally vital essence is muted somehow. Suspicious, he looks away from the dilated gaze the boy turns on him at the sound of his name. "What was in those pills you gave him?"

"Tylenol with codeine." The hunter replies, unapologetic. "I think he's going to need it. I wish I could give him something stronger, but that's all I have on hand."

"What's he going to need it for?"

"I'll have a better answer for you once I've seen his leg." Bobby removes the blanket from the end of the bed, draping it over Dean's lap while Sam gingerly lowers the boy's loose-fitting sweat pants past his decimated knee and over his swollen ankle until he can drop them onto the floor.

Dean's leg looks worse than the last time Sam had seen it if that's even possible, a riot of excessive bruising and traumatized flesh. When Bobby slides his hand over the knee joint and manipulates the kneecap with his thumb and forefinger, Dean tries to squirm away, biting his bottom lip between his teeth.

"Dislocated." Bobby grunts. "I thought as much. I think I can get it back in place, but you're going to have to hold him down while I do it and in case you were still wondering, that's what the codeine is for."

A dislocated kneecap is a tricky thing. Sam knows it's possible to realign the joint just as it's possible to realign a dislocated finger or a dislocated shoulder, but it takes skill and precision. He's never done it before and it's not a part of the field medic training knowledge he has access to in his grown up state. The fluttery feeling of fear returns with a vengeance, causing Sam's heart to skip a beat or two. The answer to his next question is obvious and yet he has to ask it just the same and dreads the answer all the more. "It's going to hurt him?"

The older man just looks at him as though he's being unbelievably slow on the up take. "Yeah." He says quietly. "It's going to be unpleasant, but he should be able to walk on it in a couple of days once I'm done."

Sam is going to have to have faith that Bobby knows what he's doing. Trusting Bobby is easy, trusting Bobby with Dean, trusting anybody with Dean...not so much.

Startling both men, Dean speaks up for the first time since his confrontation with the thing in the closet pretending to be John. "Just do it and get it over with. I can take it."

Sam nods. The sooner they do this the sooner it'll be over and the sooner Dean can begin recovering. Anticipation is often worse than the actuality. "Steve, can you hold his shin? The less movement in his leg the better." Leaning over to take his place at Dean's thigh, he tries to take his mind off what they're about to do by acting instead of thinking.

Even though Steve's skin has gone an unhealthy shade of greenish-white, he steps forward to hold Dean's shin steady and Sam has another opportunity to wonder at the man's character and what there is inside him that makes him want to help a band of people who must seem completely out of their minds. Steve must be wondering why they don't take Dean to a hospital. Not so long ago Sam would have been wondering the same thing, maybe even demanding it.

A hospital would be so much better, even a clinic would be an improvement, somewhere Dean could have access to a local anesthetic and round the clock monitoring and care. But hospitals mean questions and protocol and rules and he's learned the hard way that those things don't mix well with the life his family leads. This small room in a house surrounded by scrap metal with a gruff hunter playing doctor and minimal pain management isn't ideal by any stretch of the imagination and it's not what Dean deserves, but it's the only thing they've got so they're going to have to make the best of it.

He puts enough of his weight across Dean's thighs to hold him still, using his hip to press him into the mattress and then grabs the boy's hand in one of his. "Squeeze my hand as hard as you need to." On his side facing Dean, Sam can't see what Bobby is doing. The only indications he has that anything is being done are the changing expressions on his brother's face, the grinding pressure of Dean's grip on his hand, and the way the young boy's body spasms in agony beneath him.

At one point Dean's entire back arches off the bed so that his only contact with the mattress from his thighs up is the back of his head. The boy bucks hard and Bobby curses, low and guttural. "Hold him still!"

Sam makes a soothing, hushing noise, places his free hand on Dean's chest and rubs back and forth lightly until the boy stops trying to twist away. For only a second he considers pushing the calming emotions into his brother like he had the previous night and then discards the idea as though the mere thought is capable of corrupting him. Controlling another person's emotions goes against every moral code he can think of.

"Got it." Bobby's exclamation is softly triumphant. "Now we need to ice it." The older hunter disappears out the door and returns just as quickly carrying two plastic bags filled with ice and wrapped in small hand towels.

Dean groans as one bag is placed over his knee and the other is wrapped around his ankle. A glossy sheen of sweat covers his face and the fine tremors of reaction run ceaselessly from head to toe.

Steve smoothes the blanket over Dean's legs, looking for all the world as if he has something to say. He never does, simply gives Dean's uninjured leg a gentle pat on top of the blanket and goes to stand next to the door as though he's uncertain where he should be.

The uneasy silence is broken by Bobby. "I think Steve and I have a few things we need to chat about so we're going to go downstairs and chew the fat for a while, maybe rustle up some grub like I promised earlier. Sam, you can come with us if you like, or stay here. It's your call."

The grip Dean has on his hand intensifies and Sam has to hide a grimace because his hand already feels like every bone in it has been pulverized from his brother's crushingly strong hold. "That's okay. I'll stay here for a bit." There's no place he'd rather be than providing his brother the anchor he seems to need.

Sam suspects that Steve is about to get the standard hunter indoctrination speech and he wonders if it's the same one a bereaved John Winchester received six years ago. Whether the railway worker will believe everything Bobby has to tell him remains to be seen. The curtain is usually only drawn aside once a person has already had a glimpse of the things behind it and is ready and willing to hear more. Steve hasn't experienced anything remotely supernatural yet, nothing that can't be easily explained away.

Sitting on the bed with his back against the headboard next to his brother, Sam lets the boy cling to his aching hand as though they were adhered to each other with super glue. Minutes tick by and neither of them are ready to break the quiet mood with chatter. Eventually, Dean's grasp relaxes and Sam looks over to see that his eyes are closed, lips parted slightly in sleep. Pain medication and Dean - knocks him out every time.

It's nice – peaceful – to be able to let his guard down and just breathe. He lets his mind wander, trying to imagine the discussion going on downstairs, wondering what types of stories Bobby will tell Steve to convince him of the possibilities he might encounter if he chooses to stick with the Winchester boys. Maybe it's time to let their new friend in on the fact that they're brothers and not uncle and nephew.

Taking a nap is the last thing on his mind. Nevertheless…

_He's standing in the same clearing as before only now his father isn't the only person staked out on wooden beams that have been pounded into the loamy dirt. There are at least a dozen people, all different ages, ethnicities, and genders and all in various stages of health or lack thereof._

_His dad looks the worst and Sam figures that's because he's been there the longest. The gash on his forehead has stopped seeping blood completely, the scab fully formed, but a multitude of new abrasions riddle his arms and chest where his shirt has been cut away. None of the cuts appear to be very deep and they probably didn't bleed for very long, just shallow nicks really, just enough for something to take a taste. Not enough for a meal._

_Trying to communicate with his father or searching for a hiding spot never occur to Sam as potential courses of action. Somehow he knows he's here to observe and nothing more. These people cannot hear him or see him; they can't sense his presence in any way._

_A man wearing blue jeans, a cream colored thermal shirt and an insulated vest approaches John, carrying a bottle of water and what looks like a handful of dried fruit slices. "Look what we have for you today." He says with a greasy looking smirk once he reaches John. "Wouldn't want you to die of malnutrition or dehydration before the big event, now would we?"_

_At first Sam doesn't think the incapacitated hunter is going to swallow the water that dribbles out of the tilted bottle as it's pressed against his lips, however as soon as the liquid reaches his mouth John gulps it down greedily. Sam recognizes the strategy, can almost hear his father's voice in his head: 'Number one rule in a captive situation – always eat whatever you're given. You have to keep your strength up and be ready to act on only a moment's notice. Depriving yourself of food just to spite your captors will only make you too weak to escape.'_

_Since John's arms are tied out to his sides, his captor has to feed him the fruit slices one by one. An expression of disgust flits across John's face at every bite. There's no telling where that food has come from or what it has come in contact with and yet his father carefully chews and swallows each piece._

"_What big event?" John asks in between bites._

"_Call it a coming out party if you like." The vest-clad man stands back and surveys his prisoner. "My kind are tired of hiding in the shadows, living off the dead like scavengers. It's time for us to rise up and take our rightful place higher up on the food chain. We have a leader now and he's going to make sure we get our fair due. Halloween is the chosen night. On that night all humans will learn to fear us." His eyes shine with a fanatical light._

_One second the man is talking to his father and the next second he is moving toward a terrified teenage boy while holding a wickedly serrated knife in one hand. _

_Brown eyes impossibly wide, the boy jerks in his bindings and begins pleading. "Nononononoooooo, please no."_

_Ignoring the pleas, the man brings the knife up and runs it firmly in a long cut the length of the teenager's forearm. Blood wells up in a thick line before being consumed by the man wielding the knife. He laps at the blood like a cat would lap at a bowl of cream, the look on his face just as satisfied. "Mmmm, who'd have thought fresh meat could be so much more satisfying than the rotten stuff we normally eat." His grin is streaked and stained a deep, vibrant red._

_The sound of screaming fills Sam's ears._

"Sam! You need to wake up, son. Sam!" Bobby's voice filters through his disorientation and Sam wakes to a strong hand shaking his shoulder.

When he blinks the sleep from his eyes, he sees Dean's green irises staring at him and he senses his brother's worry. Apparently he had been moving around or making enough noise in his sleep to wake his brother up and bring Bobby running. Great.

"Care to tell me what that was all about?" Bobby's face is stern which, Sam has learned, only means the gruff hunter is concerned.

"Just a nightmare." Sam mentally sifts through the vivid images from his dream. "I had a similar one last night. About John. In my dream he's being held captive, staked out in a clearing somewhere with a bunch of other people."

"You had the same dream last night?" Bobby questions.

"Not the same, just kind of along the same lines. Last night, John was there alone, today there were other people, all tied up. John looked a lot worse this time than he did last time."

Bobby makes a thoughtful noise and runs a calloused hand over his beard.

"They're just dreams, Bobby. Well, nightmares really 'cause they get pretty gory. But they don't mean anything."

Pointing to a plate of sandwiches on the bedside table that Sam hadn't even noticed were there, Bobby says, "Let's eat and I want to hear what's been happening to you from the very beginning. And don't leave anything out."

So they eat and Sam tells Bobby everything starting with John coming back to the motel room after his hunt. It feels strange, putting their lives into words like he's telling a fairy tale. He explains how weird and violent their father had acted at the motel and Dean fills in bits and pieces as he goes along. When they get to the train ride, Dean smiles briefly, a rare expression these days. Bobby listens carefully to the parts about the attack at the train station and their stay with Steve culminating with the drive to Bobby's house. He doesn't interrupt, just lets the story unfold at its own pace. Nothing gets omitted, Sam even goes into as much detail as he can remember about both his weird dreams although he doesn't see how dreams can be of any help.

The story ends as Sam puts the last bite of sandwich into his mouth. Only then does he think of Steve and his conspicuous absence. "Where's Steve?"

Dean tenses as if he's already sure his friend has taken off and left them behind like so much unwanted trash and he needs to brace himself for that reality. Another slice of Sam's heart breaks for his brother.

"He went for a walk. I think he just needs a little time to mull things over, you know? I bet he'll be back soon." Bobby is watching Dean with a hawk's eye, voice uncharacteristically warm, leading Sam to believe that he may not be the only person in the room who can see through Dean's painstakingly crafted façade.

Sam knows Dean is uncomfortable under the scrutiny and does what he can to shift Bobby's focus. "Where do we go from here?"

"Best thing I can think of is to do some research into what your daddy was hunting in Chinook in the first place. If we can figure out what he was after we might be able to put some more of these pieces together and come up with an answer that fits."

"Right, and to do that we just need to read the local papers and look for anything unusual going on in the area." It's so simple Sam wants to kick himself for not thinking of it earlier, but really, he'd been kind of busy getting Dean out of the line of fire and hadn't had the luxury of time to hash out much of a plan.

"I'll make a few phone calls, see if any other hunters have heard about anything going on in that area. The two of you can start reading through the weekly rags I have downstairs. Maybe we'll get lucky and you'll find something in them that sounds promising. If not, we can always take a road trip out to Chinook and get the scoop straight from the locals. But I think we need to move fast because it seems to me as though Halloween is an important date in all this and that means we only have four days." Bobby takes the empty sandwich plate downstairs with him and leaves an atmosphere of purpose and optimism in his wake.

It's the first taste of either the Winchester brothers have had in a long time.

To be continued.

**A/N: Please leave me some feedback on your way out. I really appreciate hearing from you and knowing that you are out there. Your comments make me happy and excited about continuing. Yes, I'm very needy.**


	10. Tabloid News

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who wished me well after the last chapter. I think I may finally have wrestled this story into submission and we are now reaching a conclusion. This isn't the last chapter, but I think we are getting close. Ahead lies I little downtime for the guys as they prepare for the big confrontation. I hope you enjoy.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 10 Tabloid News**

"How you feelin', Dean?" Sam asks in a hushed tone as soon as Bobby leaves and they are alone again.

He doesn't really know what to say. It's a loaded question and he doubts his brother wants a one word answer, but Dean doesn't really have anything else. "Better." He hates lying to Sam, can't lie very effectively what with their bond and all anyway so 'better' is a close approximation of the truth. He does actually feel better. Of course it would be difficult to feel any worse than lying helpless and wrecked on the floor while listening to a monster tell him how little his dad cares about him or experiencing the excrutiation pain of having his dislocated kneecap manipulated back into its proper place.

Wrinkling his nose, he fidgets under Sam's worried gaze, fingering the blanket over his recently repaired knee. The ice pack pressed against the joint is slowly melting, condensation making the towel covering it damp. The somber mood is getting to him and he tries to think of some way to lighten it. "I guess we have to start calling Uncle Bobby 'Doc Singer' now." It's the best he can come up with.

A smile slowly makes its way across Sam's face and dimples flash. "Yeah, I guess."

Pleased with his success, Dean lets a faint smile of his own play across his features. "Next thing we know he'll be sporting a white jacket and a stethoscope."

"No way." Sam declares. "He'd never be able to keep a white jacket clean around this place."

Dean snickers at the mental image of Bobby wearing a surgical mask and a white doctor's jacket with the sleeves pushed past his elbows, hunched over a greasy engine holding a wrench in one hand and a tongue depressor in the other. "I don't know 'bout that. He might have better luck getting that old Mustang of his to run if he tried asking it to 'open up and say ahhhh'." The Mustang is a pet project of Bobby's and it's been a fixture in the scrap yard for as long as the Winchesters have been dropping by to mooch off the older hunter's hospitality, going on a couple of years now.

"That Mustang is a lost cause. He'd have to do major organ transplant surgery to bring it back to life." Sam stretches both his arms over his head and sighs as he relaxes back against the headboard.

"I'm going to tell him you said that." Dean threatens mischievously.

"You better not. I don't need Bobby mad at me."

"Yeah, we know what happens when he doesn't like someone anymore." Dean rubs at his cheek before he can stop himself and immediately wishes he could take that last bit back. They'd been having fun and he had just ruined it. "Don't worry; I'll protect you from the big, mean man." He puts on his best devil-may-care grin in an attempt to alleviate some of the damage, but it's too late.

"Dean," Sam says, soft and solemn. "Bobby still likes you. That's not why he…"

"'Course he does. What's not to like. I'm awesome." Dean hastens to interrupt, thrusting his hands out to his sides to display all of his supposed awesomeness. He doesn't want to hear about why Bobby hit him. The hunter surely had a good reason. Dean knows he must have deserved it somehow. All he wants is to erase the sad creases from around his brother's eyes and try to forget about the fact that the throbbing ache in his knee is getting worse again now that the pain killers are wearing off.

"Yeah, you are." Reaching a hand between them, Sam ruffles his hair and gives him a rueful look. "More than you know, kiddo. More than you know."

Steve comes in not much later, arms full of newspapers and the types of magazines found in grocery store check-out lines that sport headlines such as 'Aliens Land on Massachusetts Woman's Roof' and 'Likeness of the Virgin Mary Appears on a Piece of Toast'. The most obscure and outlandish of those articles - the ones that no one in their right mind would ever believe - those are the ones that are usually spot on. Dean knows hunters like Bobby and his dad often find things to hunt by reading the weekly tabloids.

The railway man's appearance causes a jolt of surprised warmth to spread from his belly outward and Dean feels like he's been thrown a slippery curve ball. It's hard for him to get a good grasp on the man's intentions. In his experience, people don't stick around long after catching a glimpse of the freak show life he lives. Sometimes they call social services or the police on their way out the door, but they never take it upon themselves to get personally involved. They never care enough to make that kind of effort on his behalf.

"Dean, Sam, how are you guys holding up?" Steve asks, standing at the foot of the bed uncertainly like he's afraid he may be intruding.

"We've had better days, but we're going to be okay." Sam answers for them both. "How about you? How are you taking everything?"

The stack of paper in his hands crinkles as Steve gives a half shrug. "It's a lot to process, but I'm trying to keep an open mind."

It's too much to ask of anyone. Steve's not prepared for this and he shouldn't have to be. Dean doesn't want him to have to keep an open mind or to have to learn about the existence of fundamental evil or to have his safety threatened. "You don't have to, you know? You don't have to worry about us. If you want to go home now, I won't blame you. You've done a lot already, more than most people would have, and it's okay if you want to leave."

Steve's eyes widen as he thinks this through and then he says, "I may not know anything about ghosts and goblins or whatever else Bobby was trying to tell me about, but it seems to me as though you can use all the help you can get and I don't aim to be the type of person who ditches his friends when they're in trouble. I'd like to tag along if you'll have me."

Dean ducks his head, suddenly bashful. He feels overwhelmed and unworthy. This is the first time he can remember anyone ever calling him their friend aside from the playground friendships that are here today and gone tomorrow.

"You're right. We can use all the help we can get." Sam gives Steve a heartfelt smile while sending a stream of empathic encouragement towards Dean. "Speaking of Bobby, where'd he get to anyway?"

"He's downstairs making phone calls. Asked me to bring these to you." Jiggling his armload of magazines, Steve raises an eyebrow. "Where should I put them?"

"Divvy them up between us and we can start looking for anything unusual happening near Chinook, Montana, anything that might catch a hunter's attention." Sam advises.

"What kinds of things are we looking for?"

"Anything strange that can't be easily explained: spontaneous combustion, people drowning where there's no water, wild animal attacks in populous areas. Those are the types of things that would grab John's attention."

Dean listens as his brother makes suggestions and for some reason it strikes him as funny. He can't help adding a couple of crazy suggestions of his own to the mix. "Maybe an article about a sofa that swallows people whole or a talking mouse." He grins when Sam nudges him in the side with an elbow and he looks up to see his brother's eyes sparkling in sincere amusement.

The happy, carefree time spent with his younger brother in the hotel room before their father returned from the hunt seems like ages ago, and yet it all comes flooding back at the touch of that elbow. It's no longer the skinny, pointy, dagger-like appendage of a six-year old boy. Not even close. Now it's sinewy and muscled. Still, it feels familiar and comfortable. It feels like family and home.

"Actually, I think I may have read an article about a man-eating sofa once. Turned out it was only eating the loose change out of people's pockets. And as far as talking mice go, I'm pretty sure Mickey lives in Florida, not Montana." Steve gets in on the act, winking conspiratorially at Dean.

The three of them spend the rest of the afternoon like that, cutting up and reading out loud from the magazines in their laps whenever they come across anything particularly funny or interesting. Dean and Sam lounge on the bed side by side and Steve sprawls in an armchair he drags in from another room.

At some point, Bobby pops in with snacks and more pills for Dean as well as a fresh ice pack. The older hunter stays long enough to hear Sam read aloud from an article with the headline 'World's Largest Shark Eats Low Flying Airplane', shakes his head with a scowl, and retreats back downstairs to continue making his phone calls while Dean laughs at the grainy, faked picture of a shark with an airplane in its mouth. The twitch of Bobby's mustache doesn't go unnoticed and Dean realizes the man is far less annoyed than he pretends to be.

As the evening progresses, Dean begins to feel the tug and pull of the pain medication making him drowsy. Even though he doesn't want to go to sleep, is having such a good time with Sam and Steve, and wants to continue searching for an answer to what his dad had been hunting in Montana, his eyelids start to feel heavy and the words on the page he's trying to read become blurry and unrecognizable. The battle to keep his eyes open is one he's destined to lose and when he jerks awake a short time later he finds himself slumped to the side with his head resting on his brother's arm. The lamp has been turned off and Steve is no longer in his chair.

"Gets you every time, doesn't it kiddo?" Sam chuckles softly and helps Dean scoot further under the covers.

Sighing lazily and feeling a sense of contentment that makes him lax and pliant, he surrenders to the inevitable and quickly sinks into slumber, not waking again until the sun crests the horizon the next morning.

As soon as Bobby knows he's awake, the gruff man presents him with a brace fashioned out of what looks like spare parts from a machine shop. The metal pieces are welded together, well crafted and expertly designed. Bobby had obviously been busy doing more than just making phone calls yesterday.

Once the device is fastened to his leg, Dean finds he can hobble along by himself with only minimal pain. The freedom of being mobile again is intoxicating. He feels like a caged bird released from its wire prison and finally able to fly again. He has the urge to run laps around the scrap yard and probably would have made the attempt if Sam hadn't restrained him with a hand on his arm.

"Not so fast, Dean. The brace is so you can walk, not run. You still need to take it easy and rest your knee as much as possible."

"Spoilsport." Dean pouts for a second, but soon gives it up as a waste of time. His brother isn't going to budge on this one. Instead he decides to show off his newly reacquired ability to walk and goes in search of Steve, finding his friend putting the finishing touches on his freshly shaven head as he eases the razor over the last of the stubble.

Curious, he asks, "Why do you do that? Why do you shave your head bald?" It seems like an odd thing to do and Dean figures friends are allowed to ask about stuff like that.

Steve doesn't answer right away. He stares at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, rubs a towel over the top of his head pensively like he's gathering his thoughts.

Friends must not ask each other about stuff like that. This 'friends' thing is new to Dean, he hasn't quite got the hang of it yet and apparently he got this part of it wrong. "That's okay. You don't have to tell me." Trying to escape from the awkward situation, he backs out of the doorway and into the hall.

"No Dean, come back, I want to tell you. I'm just not sure how to explain it." Steve turns to face him. "Shaving my head makes me feel close to Matt. It's something we did together before he went for his first radiology treatment, something between just him and me…something special. Does that make sense?"

Although he has no idea what the significance of radiology treatment is, Dean nods slowly because he understands loss and he understands the need to remember and he knows how important it is to feel close to someone he misses with all of his heart. Sometimes he has trouble recalling the way his mother's hugs used to make him feel and that scares him.

Placing a hand on the side of Dean's neck, Steve says, "I had a feeling you'd understand."

Breakfast is a joint effort, all three men and one boy nearly tripping over one another as they move around Bobby's cramped kitchen. They find all the ingredients to make pancakes, including a bottle of maple syrup which makes Dean happy as he doesn't really care for pancakes unless they're drenched in plenty of sticky, sweet syrup. Sam sets plates and glasses on the kitchen table while Dean pours the batter into a skillet on the stove and Steve mans the spatula. Bobby brews a pot of coffee with all the fervor of a devoted disciple.

John's evil clone must have talked himself into a coma last night because he's as silent as the dead, for which Dean is eternally grateful. In fact, he's so quiet inside the closet that it's easy to believe he's no longer in there and maybe that's what it's hoping they'll think. Maybe it wants them to open the door to check. Dean stays as far away from the closet as he possibly can. He's not going to fall for another one it its tricks.

Around big bites of fluffy hotcakes Sam brings up the previous day's productivity. "We didn't find anything even remotely promising in those magazines yesterday Bobby, unless you think we should investigate the levitating spoons in Chicago. I hope you had better luck with your phone calls."

"Levitating spoons, huh? Could be a poltergeist I suppose, but no, Chicago's a bit out of our way." Bobby takes a large gulp of his coffee. "I have a couple of leads I'm working on. Seems as though there have been a rash of grave desecrations in and around Chinook, bodies taken from fresh graves, that kind of thing…pretty hardcore. Couple of missing person's reports too. I'm waiting to hear back from some of my contacts, should have a better idea of what's going on later today."

An uneasy, dark sensation like thick fog settles over Dean at this news and he sucks his bottom lip into his mouth, glances over at his brother to see how he's taking it. Missing people, both dead and alive, that's definitely the type of thing his dad would be unable to ignore.

As Sam meets his gaze he feels a tentative prodding through the ever-present connection he has with the dark haired young man. _You okay?_ Some things never change. Sam is just as concerned about him as Dean is about his brother. He sets his mouth in a firm line and cocks his head to the side. _Yeah, you?_ Only after he receives a tight nod back from Sam does he look around to see Steve and Bobby watching them, curious, assessing expressions on their faces. Bobby knows about the bond between them, but Steve doesn't. There's no telling what the railway worker is making out of the silent communication going on in front of him.

Clearing his throat, Bobby says, "I did some research yesterday on a different subject."

"Research on what?" Dean wonders what could be more important than finding out what happened to his dad.

"Research on that stunt you pulled yesterday. The one where you tried to see how long you could hold your breath." The older man's eyebrows almost disappear under the bill of his cap as he stares at Dean.

"I wasn't…" Dean splutters indignantly.

"Boy, I know you didn't do it on purpose. It's not about that. Do you know how long you went without breathing?"

Dean shakes his head, speechless.

"Too long. You shouldn't have been able to hold your breath that long without passing out. So I got to thinking and...you ever hear of a trance state?"

The first thing that jumps into his mind is a cartoon he watched recently where Bugs Bunny hypnotizes Elmer Fund, making him walk around with his hands held straight out in front of him and a slack-jawed expression on his face. He doesn't think that's the kind of trance Bobby is talking about though.

Before he can answer Bobby's question, one of the phones in the living room rings and Bobby leaves to find out if one of his contacts has any new information. When he returns, his eyes have gone hard and flinty.

"That was Pastor Jim. He says another hunter has gone missing from the same area as your dad, a fella by the name of Bill Harvelle. He normally checks in with his wife on a regular basis and Ellen hasn't heard a peep from him in two days." Bobby pauses to take a breath. "Jim's sending as many hunters our way as he can scrounge up on such short notice. They'll all meet up here and we'll leave for Chinook before nightfall."

Dean's heart begins to gallop madly in his chest. He's not sure where the adrenaline rush is coming from, but he hopes it's from the idea of finally moving in the right direction, finally getting help for his dad.

Bobby turns to go back to the living room, presumably to make some more phone calls, then he stops and says over his shoulder, "Looks like your daddy's found himself a heap of trouble."

To be continued.

**A/N: I'd love to hear what you think of this chapter. Not a lot happened, but I hope I managed to move the plot along a little bit and I thought that after everything I'd put the boys through, they deserved a break. There should be more action in the next chapter if I have anything to say about it, although as we are all finding out, I don't always have control over these characters. They tend to do what they want to do rather than what I have planned for them. Review please!**


	11. A Gathering of Hunters

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you readers and especially reviewers. I didn't get as far along as I was hoping to in this chapter and it started to frustrate me so I decided to post what I had so far before it started to feel too rushed. I hope you enjoy.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 11 A Gathering of Hunters**

A strange tension settles over Bobby's place as they wait for the other hunters to arrive, an undefined disquiet that makes Sam's skin crawl as if the air around them is actually vibrating with tiny force waves of pressure. He can tell it's not just him, the others feel it as well. Dean is jittery and can't seem to sit still for more than a couple of seconds. More than the underlying urge to be on the go after being immobile for days on end, the boy is restless and Sam can sense the strain of his brother's nerves stretched taut. Steve's reaction to the stress is to become unusually talkative, rambling on about everything and anything like a hyper game show contestant, only not quite that enthusiastic. Even Bobby seems stiff which is odd because surely Bobby knows these other hunters, has probably worked with most of them before and knows what to expect.

Sam is at a complete loss for what could be causing the experienced hunter's unease until Bobby covertly snags his arm and leads him into the kitchen, out of Dean's and Steve's hearing range.

"Hunters are a notoriously suspicious bunch and that makes'em unpredictable. Some of them are more dangerous than the things they hunt." Bobby begins without preamble, fixing Sam with a steely gaze that fails to hide his worry.

Thoughts of his father's arsenal and occasionally paranoid behavior fill Sam's head and yeah, it's not too hard to imagine why Bobby might be slightly concerned about a whole house full of similarly minded men, all fully armed and itching for a fight. "So you're telling me to be careful."

"I'm telling you to lay low, don't draw attention to yourself. Keep Dean off everyone's radar and for Pete's sake whatever you do, don't mention that John's your daddy." Readjusting his grip on the shotgun in his hands, Bobby lowers his voice further as though someone might be listening in already. "We'll stick to the story that you're John's younger brother and Dean is your nephew. The last thing we need is for rumors of your transformation to begin circulating among the hunter community."

The subterfuge should be effective. John has always shielded his sons from the scrutiny of others as best he could, sheltered them from prying eyes. Sam has never met the other hunters his dad has been in contact with over the years except for a select few, only the ones John trusts and there aren't many people John trusts with a box of matches much less his children. There's no reason to think any of the hunters who are about to show up know that John doesn't have a younger brother.

"Works for me." Sam agrees. "If Dean's my nephew does that mean everyone will know he's John's son?"

Bobby grimaces. "I don't see any way around that; it's the only reason we have for bringing him along on a hunt as nasty as this one is likely to get. Unless you think I have a chance in Hades of talking him into staying behind here at the house with you and Steve while the rest of us handle it." The hopeful yet highly skeptical look on Bobby's face reminds Sam of an old bulldog trying to figure out how to carry a gigantic bone through the doorway of its much too small doghouse.

Shaking his head regretfully, Sam says, "He'll never go for it and I'd rather we all stay together so I can keep an eye on him than have to worry about him taking off and trying to follow you to Chinook on his own."

"That boy's a scamp all right, not to mention a resourceful scoundrel when he wants to be. I wouldn't put it past him to find a way around you if we try to leave him behind." The older hunter scratches his neck absentmindedly.

"Tell me something I don't know." Sam sometimes wishes his brother were a little less tenacious. The lengths to which the boy will go to help others are staggering. Like the time the neighbor's little boy had lost his ball by rolling it through a hole and into the crawlspace of his dilapidated rental house. Dean had somehow squirmed under the house and then emerged later with cobwebs in his hair, grime streaked across his cheeks and up his arms, scrapes on his legs and his eyes as large as saucers. In his hands had been the child's ball. Sam can think of countless other similar episodes without even breaking a sweat. Dean can't stand by and watch people suffer if there's anything he thinks he can do to help. Since more often than not Sam is the recipient of his brother's altruistic efforts, all he can feel is an overwhelming sense of fond exasperation.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

The first hunter pulls up the gravel drive just after lunch. Gage Levi has dark skin and black hair which parts around his face in long dreadlocks. A silver bar pierces his right eyebrow and his smile is wide and friendly. Even though he's about as far from the typical hunter stereotype as he could possibly be, a long jagged scar running from the base of his jaw and disappearing under the collar of his jacket marks him as a man familiar with the life.

By the time the last car has been parked in the side yard there are a total of five totally diverse hunters lounging on Bobby's back porch. Introductions are made quickly without a lot of fanfare. No one seems inclined to do a lot of chitchatting.

Brian and Kevin Bruyette are a father/son hunting team, both tall with their reddish-blond hair buzzed to barely half an inch in length. The only difference in the two men is their ages, Kevin looks to be about Sam's age and Brian is probably close to Bobby's.

Next comes Stan Olivier who hauls in a case of beer as though he's attending a kegger instead of a hunter's gathering. He's built like a collage football linebacker and true to form there's a class ring gleaming on one hand. It's not hard to imagine the burly man using a jeweler's rag to shine it diligently every night before he goes to bed.

The last to arrive is Dustin Porter. Of all the new arrivals, this man gives off the most menacing vibe. He has the rangy, lean physique of a cougar and a cold, speculative gaze to match, his eyes the color of dark amber. When he talks, his voice is a low growl.

No one bats an eye at Dean's involvement or comments on the oddity of John having a brother named Sam. Brian even goes as far as to thump Dean on the back, saying, "Keep your chin up," which Sam finds somewhat offensive, but Dean merely inclines his head like he's not bothered so Sam lets it go. Steve is accepted as simply a friend of Sam and Dean's who wants to help out but isn't very experienced in the ways of hunters.

They congregate in the living room as it's the only place in Bobby's house large enough to accommodate everyone. Those who are quick reserve seats on the sofa or bring chairs in from the kitchen while everyone else settles on the floor. Dean and Sam sit next to each other, backs against a desk pushed up to the wall, out of the way but with excellent visibility of the proceedings. After glancing around the room, Steve perches on the edge of the desk close to Dean, muscular arms crossed over his chest, a silent sentry.

For dinner Bobby serves up a hearty batch of chili, the smell of spicy beef, tomatoes and peppers permeates the entire house. Stan passes out the beer and jokingly hands one to Dean, at least Sam hopes it's only a joke. Sam intercepts the can neatly despite his brother's muttered complaints. Apparently the boy wants to be treated like one of the guys and thinks drinking beer is an acceptable way to fit in. That doesn't bode well for Dean's teenage years when peer pressure will be even more of a factor. Then again, Dean has never really cared what his classmates or other kids his age were up to. He's much too concerned about the man he idolizes and his opinion to give anyone else's opinion a second thought. Dean's idol has always been his hunter father, his hero. Sam makes himself a mental note to be more alert to the influence these other hunters might exert over his impressionable brother.

"I tried, little buddy." Stan says to Dean, shrugging.

Thankfully, talk quickly turns to the task at hand.

"Jim wasn't able to shed much light on what we're going to be facing. What's the latest intel, Bobby?" Brian pops the top on his can and swallows a mouthful, making a satisfied noise.

Pastor Jim doesn't do much active hunting, acting more as a hub of information and a reference source for hunters. His church has been a haven for many including the Winchesters at times.

"It's a mess is what it is. The pieces don't fit together right. We've got at least ten people who have disappeared without a trace. Chinook's not that big a town so you can imagine what the mood must be. Those people are probably jumping at shadows right about now. We're going to have to go in smart and be discrete." Bobby emphasizes his point by pulling his cap lower on his head.

"Hey, delicate is my middle name." Stan smirks. Considering the man looks like he could go toe to toe with a bull, Sam doubts Stan even knows the meaning of the word delicate.

"Whatever you say, cupcake." Gage balls up his napkin and throws it at Stan.

If this keeps up they're going to have a tough time making any headway on solving the mystery and rescuing John, Bill and the other missing people. Sam just hopes they're not already too late.

Bobby must be on the same wave length because before things can get any further out of hand he glares at the two trouble makers and continues. "Then there's the thing impersonating John Winchester which currently resides in my closet." At this Bobby juts his scruffy chin in the direction of the tiny room off the hallway."

"Shapeshifter?" Dustin asks.

"Nope, no reaction to silver." Bobby recites the same information he'd given Sam earlier. "No reaction to holy water or salt for that matter."

"Have you ruled out spellwork or a cursed item?" Gage brushes a strand of his hair over one shoulder when it comes too close to dipping into his bowl of chili.

"Not yet. I suppose we could be dealing with a coven of witches." Bobby admits, cutting a brisk look at Dean and then Sam. "But why would they target John?"

Wouldn't that be like a punch to the gut? To find out that the creature they have locked up in Bobby's closet isn't a creature at all but really is John Winchester under a spell or a curse. To find out that all along Sam has been wrong and the thing antagonizing Dean, tormenting and injuring him, actually is his father. He doesn't think his brother would react well to that information.

Dustin's voice disrupts Sam's thoughts. "Revenge? That's always a pretty motivating reason. I've found that most creatures don't take kindly to being hunted." The lean hunter places his empty bowl on the floor between his legs, pushing back into the chair he had commandeered.

"Jim mentioned a bunch of grave desecrations as well. Caskets ripped apart and bodies stolen." Brian glances at Kevin as though this is a discussion they've already had. "Could be the work of a large family of ghouls. It's not their normal behavior, but it's a possibility."

Canting his head, Bobby hums thoughtfully. "I'd say you were right, but the rest of it still doesn't add up. Ghouls don't like to draw attention to themselves. I've never heard of one abducting a living person, much less enough people to field a hockey team and two hunters for good measure. For the most part they hide out in dusty mausoleums."

"If they're hungry enough they might forego their usual secretive nature." Taking a long gulp from the beer can in his hand, Brian shakes his head. "Look, I hear what you're saying; I just don't think we can afford to dismiss anything yet."

"Point taken, we don't rule anything out unless we're positive."

Dustin is staring warily at the hallway. "When can we get a look at it…this thing pretending to be John Winchester? I'd like to see it with my own two eyes if you don't mind. Not that I don't trust you or anything." He grins, showing all his teeth.

"Trust me or don't. It's all the same to me." Bobby shrugs. "You'll get a chance to see it before we go, but that brings up a good question."

"What's that?" Stan asks.

"Do we take it with us or leave it here with someone to babysit while the rest of us head up to Montana?" Bobby lets his gaze fall on each hunter around the rough circle.

"Seems to me there's really no choice there, we'll have to take it with us." Brian announces.

"How do you figure?" Sam would rather not have to lug the monster around with them; it's just one more thing to worry about keeping Dean safe from.

"Well, first of all, we can't afford to handicap ourselves by leaving an able-bodied man behind just to watch your houseguest."

"And second, if there's a spell or curse involved John may need to be present before we can break it." Kevin supplies the ending to his father's thought. That's the kind of thing that comes from working so closely together for a long time. Sam likes the idea of that kind of working relationship. Nothing's stronger than family.

In the end they all decide the best course of action is to take John - or John's doppelganger - with them trussed up tight and secured in the trunk of Bobby's car. Everyone also agrees they should leave immediately even though it's already getting late in the evening and Chinook is a twelve hour drive from Sioux Falls assuming minimal pit stops, clear roads and lead feet. The clock is ticking, the deadline of Halloween fast approaching.

Bobby's gear is already packed and since everyone else came prepared, there's only one matter left to attend to before they can head out. Extracting John from the closet where he has been eerily quiet all day becomes a major attraction. Curiosity gets the better of the hunters as no one wants to miss getting a glimpse of the captured creature. Crowding into the hallway and jockeying for position, they watch as Bobby uses an iron knife to scratch away a portion of the containment rune.

Sam stands as far from the front of the press of hunters as he can get, Steve behind him and Dean at his side. They've seen John and don't have a strong desire to see him again, at least not in his present condition. In any case, Dean's emotions are spiking all over the place and Sam needs to do whatever he can to shield the boy from further trauma.

As the closet door is thrown open, Sam hears a collective groan of frustration from the gathered hunters.

"Where is he?" Dustin turns to Bobby accusingly.

Straining to see over the tops of heads, Sam uses his height advantage to confirm that the closet is indeed empty. He puts an arm protectively around his brother's neck, ready to pull the boy to safety if necessary.

Consternation stark on his face, Bobby growls, shoves Justin unceremoniously out of the way, and steps forward, knife held firmly in his hand.

There's a crunching, crashing sound from up above Bobby's head and then suddenly the hunter drops under the weight of a large, undefined shape. Dean startles, his rapid heart rate discernable against Sam's palm where it's splayed on the boy's chest to hold him steady.

Dustin, Kevin and Stan, who are nearest to Bobby, surge forward and with a collective effort they wrestle the struggling figure, none too gently, off the cursing hunter and out of the closet.

The unmistakable click of a shotgun being cocked fills the air. Sam's head swivels around to see Gage drawing aim on a snarling John Winchester whose face is pinched into an expression of utter rage and hatred.

"Don't hurt him!" Dean's anguished cry pierces Sam's heart. The boy is obviously fearful that this really is his father only under a spell or curse of some kind.

"Dean, stay back!" Steve yells as Dean rips out of Sam's grasp, launching himself towards Gage.

John must recognize a golden opportunity because his face transforms from hostile to pleading in the space on an instant. "Don't let them do this to me, son. Don't let them shoot me."

Brian pivots and catches the boy mid tackle. The strawberry blond man is much more agile than his towering frame would imply. With a reproachful glare he thrusts Dean back at Sam as if to say the boy is Sam's responsibility and he needs to do a better job of looking after him. Sam agrees wholeheartedly.

This time he holds onto the boy so tightly he knows there will be finger sized bruises on his brother's arms and he doesn't care. He doesn't care at all because when he thinks about what could have just happened he wants to throttle some measure of self preservation into the kid.

He's not mad _at_ Dean. How could he be? It's not Dean's fault. He's had all sense of self preservation stripped from him. While other children get told how loved and important they are on a daily basis, Dean gets trained to save other people, to put himself in danger. It's always about other people and never about Dean and while that's certainly admirable, it's not fair or right and it makes Sam mad.

Bobby pulls a pair of handcuffs seemingly out of nowhere, slaps them on John and just that fast the threat is neutralized. Gage lowers his shotgun while everyone lets out a sigh of relief.

A soft hiccup-like gurgle comes from his brother. Sam looks down to his see Dean's lower lip chewed nearly raw. He suspects the boy of gnawing on his bottom lip to keep it from trembling and remorse immediately flows through him. Of course Dean can feel Sam's anger and is trying to deal with it as well as fear for his father. Smoothing his hands over the places where his fingertips had just been digging into the flesh of Dean's arms, he murmurs, "Sorry, Dean. I'm sorry. I'm not mad at you."

Dean is Sam's responsibility, his sole motivation. The Wish turnes Sam into a grown up becase Dean _needs_ him and that's something he can never allow himself to forget. No matter how many other people are around, Dean needs _Sam_, for both emotional and physical protection.

The stoic boy gives Sam an enigmatic shake of his head while leaning into his supporting frame. "I know, Sammy. It's okay."

It's not okay though and Sam knows he has his work cut out for him once this is all over.

Once John is tightly bound, gagged and loaded into the trunk of Bobby's car, the hunters split into pairs for the drive to Montana. That way, the driving duties can be shared, one driving while the other sleeps, to avoid stopping for the night. Sam and Dean ride with Steve, Dustin pairs up with Bobby, Gage and Stan team up, and Kevin goes with his dad, Brian.

Their destination lies 900 miles to the northwest. Sam takes his turn at both driving and sleeping. Dean sits in the back seat as quiet as a mouse. Each time Sam turns around to check on the boy he expects to find him sleeping, but Dean just stares out the window at the darkness, eyes glowing faintly in the shine from passing headlights late into the night.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

To say the residents of Chinook are skittish would be an understatement, petrified would be closer to the truth. The streets are deserted. The playgrounds empty of children. No traffic. No pedestrians.

They drive down Main Street in a lonely procession, the only cars on the road. Many of the stores are boarded up with signs proclaiming them closed until further notice. Those still open have no customers even though it's the middle of the business day.

A hole-in-the-wall Mexican restaurant located at the far end of a strip mall provides a convenient place for the small group of hunters to confer. From what Sam can see there are only three employees, one waiter and two cooks. The floor plan is one open space with no wall between the kitchen and dining area. The hunters can see everything going on in the kitchen so there's no way they'll be surprised or ambushed while they're here. Conversely, they won't be able to hide what they're doing from curious outsiders either. Luckily there are no other patrons and it appears as though the staff doesn't speak very much English.

By combining several tables into one long one all nine travelers are able to sit together, hunched over their menus and conversing in whispers.

"This town is giving me the creeps." Kevin says, letting his eyes scan the interior of the windowless restaurant. The ghost town atmosphere permeates the very walls and Sam has to admit he feels it too.

"Yeah, well you can't really blame them, can you?" Steve rolls his shoulders to rid them of the kinks he's built up over too many miles of travel. "I mean, every time they turn around one of their friends or neighbors is missing." The civilian perspective still comes easily to the railroad worker.

"I didn't even see any police presence. I bet the cops are all hiding under their desks at the precinct." A contemptuous arch of eyebrows accompanies Dustin's remark. No love lost between the feline-like hunter and the law then.

"No cops only makes our job that much easier," says Gage.

Brian picks up his paper napkin and begins tearing it into strips. "So, I'm thinking we send Stan and Sam out to get the lay of the land. Knock on a few doors, feel people out. Maybe they get lucky and find us our next lead."

"They do have the most trustworthy looking faces." Dustin sneers, making the comment sound like an insult. "I suppose they have the best chance of getting information without spooking the locals. And the fewer we send the better shot we have that the townsfolk won't run screaming in the opposite direction."

Dean tenses in his seat between Sam and Steve. Through their link Sam senses denial and a strong aversion. No way is Dean going to be okay with this plan, but Sam's not sure how to extricate himself while giving the impression that it's no big deal to the other hardened hunters. He doesn't want to give them any reason to wonder about him or his brother.

"Not Sam." Seemingly aloof, Bobby carelessly taps his plastic covered menu with blunt fingertips.

Giving Bobby a measured glance, Brian yields to the experienced hunter. "Fine, Stan and Gage then."

"That's like sending Laurel and Hardy to do our dirty work for us." Kevin chuckles, but since no one has any serious objections it's decided and after an amazingly tasty authentic Mexican lunch, the two men set out, leaving the remaining hunters to bide their time and sip their coffee in the relatively easy to defend restaurant.

Two and a half hours later Stan and Gage are back, grinning like loons.

"Jackpot!" Gage pumps a fist in the air. "We hit the mother lode."

Brian makes a 'keep it down' gesture which is summarily ignored by the two swaggering young men.

"Yeah, we told them we were journalists looking into the disappearances and people fell all over themselves to tell us their theories." Stan elaborates.

"Then we met this old woman, I swear she had a few screws loose."

"Dude! Only a few?" Punching Gage in the arm, Stan chortles, low and throaty then pitches his voice in a high falsetto. "That forest is haunted I tell you. My poor Amy went in and never came out." Apparently that's his best impersonation of the old woman they had interviewed because Gage nods along.

"Look at the newlyweds. Ain't they adorable?" Sarcasm drips from Bobby's voice. "You boys need a little privacy?"

Dustin makes a derisive sound.

"No really," Gage grows serious at Bobby's tone. "She's not the only one to mention the nature preserve."

"What nature preserve?" Sam leans forward, eager to hear about an actual lead.

"The one to the northwest of town. The park ranger was the first person to go missing. Not only that, but anyone who goes in never comes out." Stan wiggles his fingers in the universal sign for 'spooky'. Sam can almost hear the low budget horror movie music cue up to play.

Kevin reaches across the table to pat Dean on the top of his head. "Well Shaggy, I guess we have to check out the haunted forest. Better bring the Scooby snacks."

Dean, who has been listening intently to every word, cracks a huge smile at the cartoon reference. Yeah, Sam's definitely going to have to keep an eye on his _very_ impressionable brother. He can only imagine the boy trying to mold himself into some strange hybrid version of all these hunters, combining Gage and Stan's flaky humor, Dustin's callous mercenary attitude, and Kevin's condescension. He shudders at the thought and yet his brother's long absent good mood is infectious and Sam can't help smiling along with him.

To be continued.

**A/N: This chapter has a different feel to it, partly because there are so many new characters and partly because it has a more frantic pace what with the deadline looming and the amount of ground they all need to cover if they are going to solve the case in time. I'd love to hear what you think of it. Review please!**


	12. All You Can Eat Buffet

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for reading. This story has truly gotten away from me and become much longer than I ever could have planned, but I hope you are enjoying it anyway. We finally see some action in this installment. Things get a bit hairy for both Sam and Dean, some of your questions should be answered and new ones posed.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 12 All You Can Eat Buffet**

The caravan of four vehicles enters the nature preserve by way of a winding dirt road. Trees on either side of the path stretch their bare branches across to meet in the middle. During the summer months it probably creates a leafy canopy, but this is late autumn and since most of the leaves are littering the ground the effect is more like a spectral tunnel made of gaunt bones.

Okay, maybe that's taking things a bit too far. They're just trees with normal branches. Nothing scary or unusual about them. Dean gives himself a mental kick for letting his imagination run away from him. He blames his unease on Stan's stories about people who have never been seen again after setting foot inside this forest. Ghost stories don't scare him. What kind of hunter gets scared of some silly ghosts anyway? If he's feeling a little…wary, it's only because they still aren't certain what they're going to encounter in these woods. Wary isn't the same thing as scared. Wary just means being careful and all good hunter are careful.

The driving path ends about a mile inside the border of the preserve and several smaller walking paths lead off in various directions from there. Once everyone has parked, they begin gearing up and making plans.

Dustin inspects each of the walking paths in turn before returning to the group and saying, "There's been recent activity on all three paths. We can't rule any of them out from lack of use."

"We can split up, cover more ground and make less noise in smaller groups." Gage suggests.

Kevin shoves his hands inside the pockets of his heavy coat when a gust of wind blows frigid air around the assembled hunters. "Alright, so three paths means three groups plus someone will need to stay with the cars just in case our friend gets creative and finds a way out of Bobby's trunk."

"Unless anyone has a reason why not, I'll take Sam and Dean with me, Dustin can go with Stan and Gage to keep them from getting into too much trouble, Kevin can stick with Brian and that leaves Steve to stay behind and guard our prisoner." Bobby's clear, authoritative voice brooks no argument and no one sees fit to offer one. Although Steve looks a bit concerned over the arrangements, he doesn't object.

The news that he'll be joining Bobby and Sam on the hunt comes as a welcome surprise to Dean. He'd been fully expecting to have to fight tooth and nail to be allowed to go. He can't think of a worse fate than having to stay behind and warm a seat inside one of the cars. All the time he'd spent crafting the perfect arguments and counter arguments seems to have been a waste, but he's okay with that.

"Remember, this is a reconnaissance mission only. We'll meet back here in three hours, right before it begins to get dark. If you see anything suspicious, you report back here to the group. No one plays the hero and tries to take on the enemy without backup from the entire team. If we thought this was something only one or two hunters could take care of by themselves we wouldn't all be here." The military crispness of Brian's commands reminds Dean of his father. He misses his dad even though he's not always sure why. It's not something he gives a lot of thought to.

Steve is leaning on the hood of Bobby's car, holding a rifle across his chest and looking distinctly uncomfortable. Since the railroad worker is only here because of him, Dean has to do something about it.

"Hey." He greets his friend cautiously. "Um, are you okay?"

Pulling his coat tighter against the chill, Steve glances at the truck where an occasional muted thumping can be heard. It's not really a loud noise because John's arms and legs are tied too tight for him to be able to move more than an inch or two. Bobby was obsessive about removing anything the creature might be able to use to escape before locking it in. "You know, I've never done anything like this, Dean." He confides. "What am I supposed to do if he gets out?"

The compulsion to reassure the kindhearted man is so strong it makes his chest ache. "He won't. Bobby knows what he's doing. He wouldn't leave you here alone if he thought anything was going to happen. Believe me, I've spent plenty of time hanging out in the backseat of the car while my dad was on a hunt. Mostly it's just boring."

"What about you then. Should you really be going in there?" Steve points to the trailhead where Sam and Bobby are already standing.

"It's different for me. I'm meant to do this. I've been in training since…I've been in training for a long time." Dean's breath catches in his throat because hunting is in his blood, thrumming through his veins, and this feels like destiny – his destiny. "Besides, you heard Brian this is just recon. No sweat."

Steve puts a hand on his shoulder and squeezes like he doesn't want to let go. "You take care of yourself then. Don't take any chances and I'll see you in a couple of hours."

Dean nods and moves away when Steve's hand gives a final squeeze and eventually drops to his side.

Once everyone is prepared, the three teams separate, the noise of boots crunching through fallen leaves fades as the teams get further and further apart. The numerous oak and maple leaves scattered on the ground are impossible to avoid so stealth isn't really an option. Dean picks his next step gingerly and hopes the monsters or whatever haunts these woods have the same disadvantage.

His leg only hurts when he lands on it wrong, a big improvement from the stabbing, grinding pain of before. The brace on his leg, the brace Bobby made for him, holds his left leg locked in a straight position and supports his ankle which means he has to swing that leg out to the side to walk or balance his weight on the ball of his right foot while shuffling the other forward. Either way walking is pretty awkward, but he's still moving on his own and without it he wouldn't be allowed out here to help Sam so he counts it as a huge win. Bobby really came through for him.

He's carrying a shotgun on loan from Bobby while Sam still has their dad's Glock, the one he'd taken from the hotel when he'd turned big. Shooting a shotgun is like breathing to him – it's easy and feels completely natural. Having the gun in his hand gives him a boost of sorely needed confidence. If he focuses on the rhythm of Bobby's footsteps in front of him and Sam's behind him he can almost forget about the purpose of their trek through this forest and pretend it's like a hundred other outings he's been on to practice his hunting skills. A little tune bubbles up in his mind and he hums along to it under his breath.

The tempo to Sam's steps changes as his strides lengthen and he catches up to Dean. "Bobby, how well do you know Dustin and the other hunters?"

Dean opens the link to his brother's emotions and there's an undercurrent of distrust along with apprehension. Most likely the apprehension is coming from the hunt, but the distrust seems to be aimed at their new hunting partners.

"Some better than others. Why do you ask?" Bobby speaks in a hushed voice, glancing behind him so he can see Sam's face.

"Oh, no reason I guess. I just don't want…you know what, no it's fine." Sam darts a quick look out of the corner of his eye in his direction and Dean knows it has something to do with him; he just doesn't know what.

For his part, Dean likes being around the other hunters. They know lots of stuff about hunting and he wants to soak every bit of it up like he's a sponge. Sam, Bobby and his dad know tons about supernatural creatures and how to hunt them, but Dean figures every hunter is unique. They all know different stuff, like pieces of a gigantic puzzle, and he wants to learn all of it so one day he can slot the pieces into place and it will all make sense. He wants to be the best hunter ever.

Bobby snorts and then says, "You don't have to worry, Sam." As if he's deciphered Sam's cryptic sentence while Dean is still in the dark. He's not used to being in the dark when it comes to his brother and he doesn't like it, but he can let it go for now. There will be time to wheedle the meaning out of Sammy later.

The path they're on is a fairly straight shot due west. Dad's outdoor survival training is an extensive program so Dean has no need of a compass in order to determine their direction. After following the same course for about an hour, the trees begin to thin, making natural cover scarce. The path dwindles until it's barely discernable from the rest of the undergrowth. Bobby, from his position at point, slows the pace and crouches down, signaling for Sam and Dean to do the same. The index finger of one hand goes to his mouth in a 'quiet' gesture, the other points to a spot near a clump of birch trees in the distance.

When Dean squints in the direction Bobby is pointing, a flash of aqua-blue is visible weaving among the parchment-like trunks of the stately birches. The hours he's spent on field training come in handy as, at another signal from Bobby, all three hunters (yes, he totally gets to call himself a hunter now because this isn't just research, this is a real hunt no matter what Brian said about recon) move in tandem to follow the glimpses of bright blue they catch every now and again moving ahead of them. They stay a safe distance back, move with a practiced stealth. As they close the distance slightly, the blur of a figure they are following resolves into the shape of a man wearing an unusually vibrant blue jacket and black denim pants.

Within the space of about ten minutes, the man reaches a cabin and Dean watches from his hiding spot behind an grouping of boulders beside Sam and Bobby as the man opens the door, sauntering inside, heedless of the attention he has attracted. There are more people inside, a lot of them for such a tiny, rustic lodge. It's not the type of place people would normally go to party and yet Dean sees a wild jumble of people inside before the door closes behind the man. He wishes he'd been able to tell what they were doing in there, but all he got was a vague impression of chaos, almost like a mindless mob.

Bobby motions Sam and Dean to lean in until their foreheads are nearly touching. "Ain't no way that cabin is full of peaceful, nature-loving hikers. Not that many of 'em and not in the middle of an early winter with no fire burning to cook over or keep the cabin warm." He gestures to the chimney where not a wisp of smoke can be seen. "I'm going in for a better look. You two stay out of sight." He whispers.

Sam starts shaking his head and Dean can only stare wide-eyed at the older hunter. "Bobby…"

Their surrogate uncle scowls. "Listen, you boys do what I tell you. If anything happens to me, anything at all, you hightail it back to tell the others. Don't come back for me, don't go looking for me, don't even think about me until you get to the cars and tell the other what we found here." Waving his hand briskly to cut off any protests, he continues. "I'm just going to go take a quick gander through the window, get the full story on our nature lovers in there, and be back before you can knock your heads together three times." He thumps them each once on the forehead and is moving away before either of them can put voice to their objections.

Dean tightens his grip on the double barrel shotgun and sucks his bottom lip between his teeth, glancing at Sam. His brother's hard gaze never wavers from where Bobby is picking a slow, cautious route up to the only window on the front of the cabin.

With his heart trying its best to beat right out of his chest and his finger curled around both triggers of his weapon in dreading anticipation, Dean watches while Bobby creeps under the sill and peaks through the splotchy glass. His normal scowl is quickly replaced by a look of flat-out disgust.

Dean only has a moment to wonder what could have caused the repulsion before the hunter is back, stoking his bearded chin like he's been given a particularly difficult brain teaser to solve or possibly one of those word find puzzles that Sammy loves so much. "It's ghouls." He says absently. "The cabin's crawling with the darn creatures. They're having a…well let's just say they're in the middle of a meal…sorta like a buffet." And there's that look of disgust again. "What I don't get is, ghouls aren't smart. They don't have enough brain power between a roomful of 'em to charge a battery most of the time. So how have they gone and organized all this?" He flaps one hand in an all-encompassing gesture. "The abductions, the cabin, the large numbers all working together. And why?"

The sound of the cabin door crashing open draws Dean's startled attention. A horde of people – _ghouls_ apparently – are flooding from the cabin and cascading across the stretch of land leading to the hunters' hiding place. They look like normal people, like anyone you might meet walking down any street in small town USA, except for the fact that they all have smears of blood and gore on their hands and around their mouths. Some even have blood dripping off their chins.

His every instinct is screaming for him to jump up, start blasting away, don't let them get Sammy, don't go down without a fight. His muscles tense to do just that when he feels a steadying pulse along the strand of connection with his brother, a brush of calm and constraint. _Not yet._

And then they're surrounded.

Taking a deep breath, Dean looks at the gloating faces of the men and women surrounding the trio of hunters. It's only then that he notices several of them share the same face, as though they are twins or triplets. There are two women with thick auburn hair curling to shoulder length, oval shaped faces and double chins, three men wearing goatees with large bulbous noses, and a whopping four extremely rotund men whose pot bellies completely overlap the belts they may or may not have cinched around their incredible girth.

There are more ghouls pouring from the cabin every second and with the last of them comes a skeletal figure dressed in a moldering white burial shroud. His cheeks are sunken and his eyeballs protruding. He barely has enough skin stretched over his bones to hold them all together and yet a powerful electrical energy seems to radiate from him, a snapping humming current that Dean can feel crackling in the air. Everything about it looks and smells of death and decay except for the amulet it wears around its neck which sparkles a deep sapphire blue. Dean swears the undead creature, for certainly it cannot be alive, is not walking but gliding towards them.

"A Lich." Bobby hisses. "That explains a lot."

"Humans." The Lich intones, its voice a wheezy rattle. "I could sense you from a mile away. How nice of you to come straight to us instead of making us acquire you the hard way." The thing's smile is truly horrifying, a macabre pull of paper-thin leather over grizzly jawbone. "And with two days to spare. I always did admire punctuality, you know. I have huge plans for my followers this Halloween. I've made them certain promises in exchange for their allegiance. Certain promises I doubt you're going to like very much, but you can't please everybody, right?"

Hard as it is to look the Lich in the eye, Dean refuses to be intimidated. A chill travels up his spine that has nothing to do with the gust of wintry wind striking his face. His legs feel as wobbly as cooked noodles and it'll be a miracle if he manages to stay upright, but until he falls flat on his face no one needs to know how close he is to collapsing. Glowering at the Lich, he stands as tall as he can, throws out his chest and tenses every muscle in his body to stop them from trembling.

His show of defiance draws the Lich's undivided attention and it turns its unblinking gaze on him. "Not many would face me so directly, child. You have courage, a rare commodity." It glides nearer, hand outstretched as if to touch. "You could be very useful to me in the upcoming ceremony."

"No, don't touch him!" Bobby stands in a rush and tries to intercept the Lich. Before he can take a step however, three ghouls tackle him to the ground.

The Lich's hand hovers in front of his face and then Sam is right there snarling like a furious wolverine and pulling him out of the way. Dean stumbles backwards, the leg brace making graceful movement impossible, and lands on his backside.

"You would take his place?" The Lich asks Sam. "Very well." Lightning fast this time, the Lich's hand darts out and closes around the bare skin of his brother's neck.

Sam thrashes in the Lich's grasp, seemingly unable to get free. His eyes begin to roll wildly and his breathy pain-filled moans fill the otherwise silent air.

All rational thought flies from Dean's mind. He can't stand to hear his brother make that noise. It tears right through him like a serrated knife. He'll do anything, anything to stop Sammy from hurting. Struggling to his feet again, he picks up the double barrel shotgun from where he had dropped it and takes aim.

But the undead creature merely glances at him and laughs, dry and brittle like rotting leaves.

The laughter is returned by the surrounding ghouls and soon the glade is echoing with it.

Still chuckling, the Lich releases Sam and he crumples in a heap, panting heavily. "Oh, don't worry. I only drained him a little. There's plenty of life left in him for later. Now, I want a taste of you." It comes for him and the ghouls close ranks, eager to watch the suffering continue.

Now that Sam has stopped whimpering and he can think again, Dean knows the shotgun will have no effect, not on the Lich, and he only has two shots before he needs to reload. With twenty or so ghouls the odds are not in his favor. Dean knows no one is ever going to give him as award for his intelligence, but he has to do something. It's down to him now and the only thing he can think of is to keep the badies focused on him, away from Sam and Bobby. It's not a plan, not even close to a plan and he's pretty sure it doesn't have a snowball's chance of resulting in their secape. It's better than nothing though.

Swinging his braced leg out and back, he takes a shuffling step backwards. The circle of ghouls moves with him, the Lich glides and grins its unholy smile again, apparently enjoying the game. Two more shuffling steps like that and Bobby is outside of the ghoul ring, forgotten for the time being in favor of more enjoyable pursuits. Dean pretends vulnerability, stumbles to the side only to catch himself on a nearby tree trunk at the last possible second.

His one man show is working, the ghouls are transfixed and the thrill of an easy chase and guaranteed victory is making the Lich's eyes gleam red. Well, Dean thinks, this is one thing he has always been good at. He must make a very tempting target for all things supernatural. Of all the things out there for him to be good at, 'bait' turns out to be his most valuable quality. Yipee.

Although he can see the older hunter in his peripheral vision, he is careful not to look in Bobby's direction. On the outside he lets as much contempt and bravado show as he can muster while on the inside he cheers as Bobby regains his feet, reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a flask of holy water.

Feinting a lunge to the left and then to the right, Dean looks behind himself as though he's thinking about making a run for it. The ghouls react to his ploy by moving to cover his perceived avenue of escape even though they already have him surrounded. Bobby hadn't been kidding when he said ghouls were as dumb as rocks.

Sam starts to stir feebly so Dean relays encouragement while also sending all the standard emotions they use to convey _stay quiet, don't move, and wait for my signal. _

What with acting the part of cornered quarry, maintaining eye contact with two dozen monsters, and sending complicated emotional messages to his brother at the same time, Dean is about at his limit for multitasking. He's not sure how much longer he can keep it up. That's why, when Bobby finally makes his move, relief floods through him like a tsunami.

The older hunter sidles up behind the preoccupied Lich and, once he's within range, pours the entire flask of holy water on the creature's head.

The Lich lets out a shriek, writhing in agony as the liquid boils and sizzles over its emaciated body as if it were the Wicked Witch of the West.

"Remember what I told you." Bobby calls out to Dean before turning and running into the woods. The last thing Dean hears as Bobby is swallowed by the thicket is a string of taunts he throws out at the confused mass of ghouls who seem to have lost the ability to work as a cohesive unit and are milling about in confused anarchy.

Any hopes Dean might be harboring that the Lich will simple melt away leaving the heroes of the movie to go on about their business in peace are quickly shattered when it straightens and yells. "What are you waiting for? After him, you insufferable fools. And unless you want me to suck the life force from your useless bodies, someone had better stay to make sure these two are still here when I get back."

Galvanized to the last man and oddly identical couplet of women, most of the ghouls tear off in pursuit of Bobby with the Lich gliding behind them, screaming irate orders. Two stay behind to guard Sam and Dean until their master returns.

Sam had quieted under Dean's calming directives and now even though Dean can feel his brother's presence, alert and responsive, the young man is lying unmoving where the Lich left him. To anyone who doesn't know Sam, doesn't realize what a Winchester is capable of, he looks pretty defenseless. Dean is continuing his vulnerable child routine so no one can really blame the ghouls for what happens next.

Pulling a knife from a wrist sheath, one of them smirks cruelly and kneels next to Sam. "He didn't say we couldn't have a taste, did he?"

"No, he didn't." The other grins, smacking its lips.

As soon as he sees the knife come out something snaps inside of Dean. A rage boils up and overflows his shredded control. His mind conjures up an image of six year old Sammy, smiling a gap-toothed smile and looking up at him like Dean is his entire world. He's not letting Sammy get hurt anymore. No one else is going to touch his brother. There are two ghouls and he has two rounds chambered. He doesn't think it through any further than that.

The shotgun comes up in one fluid movement. He aims, squeezes the first trigger and one ghoul drops. Again he aims, squeezes the second trigger and the next ghoul drops. Head shots, both of them.

They are dead. Their bodies lie lifeless at his feet.

He killed them.

It's the first time anything has ever died at his hand.

_They look like normal people, like anyone you might meet walking down any street in small town USA_ and he can't look away from the bloody, gaping holes he put in their heads.

He thinks maybe he should be happy because he's a real and proper hunter now.

But he isn't happy.

This is all he's ever wanted. He'd thought he was ready for it.

Yes, he's a hunter and he's also a killer. A murderer.

He starts to shake violently.

His throat goes as dry as the Sahara desert so he works his tongue around his mouth, trying to work up a little saliva. There's a thumping, rushing sound in his ears and everything seems to be getting further and further away. He's sinking. From a great distance he hears his brother's voice. "Come back to me, kiddo. Talk to me. Please talk to me."

Lethargy steals over him like a warm blanket and he welcomes it, wraps it around himself.

To be continued.

**A/N: I've been slaving away at this chapter in order to get it posted before I leave for VanCon! If you are going to be there also, stop by and say hello to me. I'll be in seat F-29. Also, this chapter seriously tried to wipe the floor with me so I need to hear what you think of it. Review please!**


	13. Mind Control vs Zoning Out

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Hey, thanks for coming back for more! I hope you enjoy!**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 13 Mind Control vs. Zoning Out**

Even after the Lich stops touching him the residual sense memory of icy tendrils invading his body and turning the very blood in his veins into a frozen sludge leaves him feeling wiped out and so very soul-weary that he can't fathom lifting his head off the ground much less standing. If he didn't know better he might think his bones had been pulverized and his internal organs reduced to nothing more than jellied pulp.

Whatever a Lich is, Sam can attest to the fact that it has some powerful mojo. It only had to get one finger on him to unleash one heck of a supernatural whammy smackdown.

The events surrounding the undead creature's intensely disturbing touch are hazy, shrouded in pain and obscured by some kind of sensory dampening effect emitted by the Lich. Sam remembers pushing Dean out of the way even before he knew how horrifying being touched by the Lich was going to be. In hindsight he's glad he acted on his instincts to spare his brother that experience. Very glad. He figures his larger body was better equipped to absorb the mystical attack. Who knows what might have happened to Dean's smaller frame if he'd been the one to be pounded by that level of arcane assault.

Like a fuzzy movie playing on a drive-thru movie screen he thinks he remembers seeing his brother regain his feet and point his shotgun at the moldering creature. The dread he had felt at that moment, at the wheezing sounds of mirth coming from unnaturally ancient lungs, cuts off abruptly in his memory and the next thing he remembers is lying on the ground with Dean's empathic messages cautioning him to remain stationary. At that point, still in the grips of the Lich's thrall, he couldn't have moved if he'd had to anyway.

Watching through slit-open eyes, Sam had inwardly cringed as Dean distracted the horde of monsters long enough for Bobby to pull off the great escape, drawing most of the creatures including the Lich into what will hopefully turn out to be a wild goose chase. As if that hadn't been enough, his brother had then taken out both of the remaining ghouls with two perfectly aimed shots to the head. Lickity split, in an instant the threat had been neutralized. It's actually kind of awe inspiring and Sam would be appropriately awe-struck by his brother's amazing talent if he wasn't so busy being furious at…the world, at the universe in general, at their father specifically, for putting a ten-year-old boy in that position in the first place.

But all that pales into insignificance when he gets Dean in his line of sight because his brother is staring at the dead ghouls, eyes wide, shotgun dangling forgotten from a slack grip and face gone a terrifying shade of milky white. Before Sam can react, the boy begins to shake as though thousands of electrical currents are sending jolt after jolt of shockwaves through his body. The defensive walls the boy has started to use more and more frequently to protect himself with are slamming into place so quickly it makes Sam's head spin and he knows if he doesn't do something immediately it's going to be too late to stop his brother before he has receded into the deepest confines of his mind.

Getting an aching arm underneath his torso, Sam pushes up to his knees, exhales sharply and staggers the rest of the way to his feet. "Come back to me, kiddo. Talk to me here. Please talk to me." Sam is speaking quickly, desperately, his words rushing over one another in his haste to reach the boy. "You need to tell me what you're thinking. I can't read your mind, you know that, and now's not the time to practice your mental blocks or your ability to put yourself into some kind of trance or whatever it is you're getting ready to do."

Despite his cajoling and the attempt at shocking Dean out of his own headspace and back to reality by bringing up Bobby's trance theory, Sam can feel his brother slipping away. The boy's emotional presence, usually vibrant and alive like a homing beacon for Sam, is getting weaker by the second. What that means exactly, Sam can't even begin to guess, but it can't be good.

"Dean?" Urgently, he cups one hand around the boy's exposed neck. The pulse thrumming there against his fingertips reassures him slightly.

Dean blinks slowly. A far away expression steals the light from his moss green eyes. "I killed'em." He murmurs dreamily, looking to Sam for confirmation.

"Yeah, you did. You did good." When his words cause a filmy veil to fall across the boy's eyes and a clenching despair to settle over him instead of providing the pride he expects them to, Sam begins to understand. The realization sickens him, makes his throat close up and ties his stomach in knots. There's little to nothing he can do to stem the desolation he can feel creeping over the young boy who has just been forced to kill in order to save the life of someone he loves.

Dean needs time to digest what has happened and come to terms with it, but he's not going to get that time. As is par for the course they can't stay here to heal or for any other reason. The Lich will be back and they have to go warn the other hunters. Not only can they not stay, but they have to make a run for it and Dean's brace isn't going to allow him much speed.

With one arm around his brother's trembling shoulders and the other under his legs, Sam grinds his teeth and lifts. The effort causes black and red spots to dim his vision, the effects of the Lich's attack still sapping much of his strength. Instead of giving in to his body's demands to slump to the ground, he steadies his legs and takes off at a sprint, weaving his way back to the trail that will lead to the hunter's rendezvous spot. He's not sure how long he's going to be able to keep up this pace, but as long as they can get out of the general vicinity of the cabin before he collapses Sam figures they'll at least have a chance at escaping.

Dean continues to emotionally detach himself from his surroundings. As Sam runs with his brother physically in his arms, he can feel their bond stretching and lengthening until it seems as though it might snap at any moment. Physical distance doesn't usually affect the bond at all. It doesn't matter whether they're in the same room or across town from one another, Sam can mentally access his brother's emotions without having to think about it. This is different. Now, even though they're touching, it feels as though they're light years apart.

The growing separation is scaring the snot out of Sam. He tries again to talk the boy back off the ledge he seems ready to jump from. "How you feelin' Dean?" Sam splits his attention between his brother and the quickly passing scenery, breathing heavily through his mouth as he pushes through his fatigue.

Dean tries to answer the question, his mouth opens and his tongue moves to form the words, but all that comes out is a garbled exhale. "Uggghhh."

"What's that, kiddo? Try again for me." Sam pants, his words breaking against the pounding of his feet on the trail.

There's no answer this time, not even an attempt at an answer and Sam's fear expands exponentially. The muscles in Dean's face have all relaxed, his eyes are closed and his mouth is parted softly.

There are only two options here as far as Sam can tell: he can either allow his brother to detach and drift away completely, hoping he comes back by himself or he can somehow follow the bright spark of vitality that is Dean's essence by grabbing hold of their empathic link and using the unbreakable tether to chase the boy into the strange nether space inside his head.

It feels completely natural to follow Dean; he's been doing it ever since he first learned how to crawl. So between those two choices, Sam doesn't have to deliberate for long. He isn't going to let Dean do this alone.

By visualizing their bond, he is able to latch onto his connection with his brother, hitching a ride into the recesses of Dean's psyche, a place that Sam quickly begins to associate with a maze of dark emotions. The walls of the maze close in around them, walls made of regret and deep despair. As though Dean is punishing himself, condemning himself to do mental penance, he winds his way further into the murky shadows.

Unable to continue running in the real world and concentrate on Dean's mental battle at the same time, Sam allows his knees to buckle, cushioning his brother's slim body with his own when they roll into the underbrush at the side of the trail.

Once he's sure they're far enough off the path and concealed by the large fronds of an overgrown fern, Sam puts both his large hands on Dean's face, framing his head in his palms. "Why are you doing this to yourself, huh? You didn't do anything wrong." He whispers into the fine hairs at his brother's temple.

The landscape inside Dean's mind is foreboding and this is all new territory for Sam because although he has been privy to Dean's emotional state for several years now and they've been using their abilities to project emotions as a mode of silent communication for about one year, he's never actually traced their connective link, their bond, all the way into his brother's mind before. Yeah, this is a new one and it's frightening and a little bit daunting. The last thing he wants to do is take a misstep, cause more harm than good.

Delicately, he begins to nudge a little bit here, prod a little bit there, trying to guide the boy's internal journey along a lighter course and replace the negative emotions inside Dean's treacherous maze with more positive ones. It's slow going and his brother shows no signs that he's aware that Sam is with him, exerting as much benevolent influence as he can.

Dean lets out a keening mewl, heartbreaking in its quiet intensity. Sam shushes him and swipes a thumb under the fall of the boy's eyelashes on his cheek while pushing the pride he had hoped his brother would feel earlier in the place of a particularly nasty patch of dismay. They seem to be making progress as Dean works his way past the emotions associated with the hideous act of murder and into safer territory. Maybe this trance state is meant to help Dean cope with the disaster of their lives faster and better than he normally would be capable of. That makes a certain kind of sense.

It hits Sam that he's pushing emotions into Dean again, making changes and altering his thought processes to a degree. Even though he hates the idea of emotionally manipulating someone and forcing them to feel things they aren't ready to feel, this is different. This is using his most recently acquired ability in tandem with Dean's new talent for going into an emotional trance seemingly at will. Both he and Dean have developed these interlocking abilities, unique yet co-dependent. That can't be a coincidence. It must have something to do with their bond and it must have a purpose. They just have to figure out what that purpose is. Everything having to do with the Wish including their bond and the emotional attachment associated with it has benefited them thus far, has been a blessing in some way. They have no reason to believe these new abilities won't also prove to be helpful. There's a lot to think about.

The sun dips below the tree line, hurrying dusk along and sending the long shadows of barren branches slinking over the ground. A rock is digging into his shoulder blade, but he ignores it, focusing solely on his brother. Eventually, Dean gasps and his eyes flutter open. The trembling has stopped, Dean's cheeks have regained some of their color, and the emotions traveling along their bond have resolved into resignation and acceptance.

"You're back." Sam notes in a hushed tone, smiling gently.

"Yeah." Dean looks down, shy for a moment, then he licks his lips, meets Sam's gaze and says, "We're back. You were there with me, helping me." The gratitude tinged with bewilderment is so out of place that Sam has a moment of confusion until it occurs to him that Dean doesn't expect anyone, not even his own family, to put any effort into helping him. It's disheartening after everything Sam has tried to instill in the boy during his brief bouts of adulthood. He guesses he'll just have to try harder.

"Hey, you think you can get rid of me that easy? Not likely, kiddo. Where _you_ go, _I_ go. End of story." Pulling his brother into a one-armed hug, Sam wipes the back of his other hand quickly across his eyes, hiding the evidence of his combined relief and sadness.

Dean nods, leans into Sam like he needs to feel his solidity and takes a shuddering breath. "I'm sorry I…it's just that...they looked like people. They looked like regular people." His voice trickles away at the end and he lowers his gaze, ashamed.

Ducking down until he can see Dean's eyes, Sam puts a wealth of conviction in his tone. "I know they did. But they weren't. Dean, look at me. They weren't people. You only did what you had to do. You did the right thing."

The boy looks up then, clearly still shaken by recent events. "They were gonna slice you open, Sammy. I couldn't let them hurt you. You're mine to protect. _My_ brother." This last sentence is said possessively.

"Yeah, and you're mine too. Don't forget that part." Sam knows Dean has a tendency to view his devotion to his family as though it's a one-way mirror, he can see everyone while no one can see him.

Shifting gears, Dean says, "How did you make me…I could sense you with me, but why did everything…what did you do, Sam?" Curiosity and confusion, not accusation, tinge his words and it's immediately obvious to Sam what he's talking about.

"You mean when you zoned out?" He asks lightly, avoiding the term 'trance' for now.

"I guess, yeah. I mean, it felt like I had made up my mind and then you changed it for me, made me see things differently. It was kinda weird."

Sam closes his eyes for a moment then sighs. "It's the Wish – our bond. I think it's developing new traits. Up until now we've been able to do the same things; we can both read each other's emotions and transmit emotions to each other like signals." He pauses while he chooses his next words. "When we were at Steve's, that night when your leg muscles cramped up? Well, I wanted you to relax so I could loosen the knot. I wanted it really, really badly and then…you did it. You relaxed. The Wish seems to have given me a way to shape your emotions while at the same time giving you the means to process your emotions on a truly deep level, so deep that it's almost on another plane."

Dean frowns. "Can you make other people feel things or is it just me?"

"Honestly? I have no clue. I haven't tried it on anyone else. I never meant to do it to you. I won't do it anymore if you don't want me to." Sam rubs his neck self-consciously.

"You get something cool like mind control and I get zoning out like a zombie? Figures. What kind of super power is zoning out anyway?" Dean huffs.

"It's not mind control." Sam defends his new ability. "It's just…I don't know what it is." He admits with another sigh. Trust Dean to think in terms of super powers and comic book heros.

They're still sitting there, Dean chewing his lip in deep thought and Sam simply trying to psych himself up before continuing their trek to the prearranged meeting place at the cars, when a rustling sound breaks the silence. Someone or something is coming down the trail, heading in the same direction they were going.

Dean tenses, becomes as motionless as a statue and Sam gets a precautionary arm around his brother's middle, ready to lift him up and make a run for it if circumstances so warrant. The Glock is within easy reach tucked in his waistband, but he can't pull it out for fear that the resulting noise of shifting leaves will give away their location.

The rustling stops, starts, stops again. Whatever is coming doesn't appear to be very fast or agile. Could be it's wounded or possibly it has a perfectly good reason for taking its time – like maybe it's tracking someone. Maybe it's tracking them.

Sam holds his breath and holds a hand over Dean's mouth as well for good measure.

Of all the things it could be, Sam is totally unprepared for the person who comes stumbling down the trail, haggard and bloody. A chill races up Sam's spine and Dean noticeably flinches, pressing into Sam's side.

_John?_

To be continued.

**A/N: Your reviews mean the world to me. They encourage me and make me want to write faster and better. In fact, I've recently enrolled in a creative writing course!**

**I've - reluctantly - returned from VanCon; it was more fun than I had anticipated and that's saying a lot! If you're interested in hearing more about it, send me a PM or a review and I will happily reply with some notes I wrote after I got back. A friend of mine was lucky enough to be in the meet and greet with Jared where he told a story about Dean's amulet that I found quite amusing. I'll share it with you as well as some of my own stories about the Con.**


	14. Lessons in Spellcasters

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Happy Halloween! I figured since this story takes place around this time of year the time was right to post another section, although I'm kind of breaking a promise to myself in doing so. **

**This chapter should give some explanation for the Lich and its behavior. I've played around with the lore and created my own mythology here. I hope you enjoy!**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 14 Lessons in Spell-casters**

Dean doesn't need Sam's hand covering his nose and mouth to know not to make a sound. It's an insult to his hunting skills and he would definitely be glaring at Sam right about now to let his brother know how offended he is if not for the shock of seeing his dad shambling along the path - because what the heck! All worry about the zombifying trances and his inability to stave them off is shoved rudely aside at the sight. He knows he can't react to this new incarnation of his father and when a full-body shudder threatens to make his teeth rattle he digs his blunt fingernails into the palms of his hands until it stops.

He stares through the brush and ground cover at the man on the trail. Grime and the rusty brownish-red of dried blood stain his clothes and skin. There are knife-thin, precise cuts everywhere ranging from mostly healed and scabbed over to fresh and oozing. He's not wearing a coat and both his shirt sleeves are pushed up past his elbows as if something wants ready access to the fleshy parts of his biceps and the juicy veins in his forearms. Angry red abrasions ring swollen wrists, his hair is matted with filth; in short he's a mess.

The last time Dean had seen the monster wearing his dad's face, before they had locked it in Bobby's trunk, there hadn't been a mark on it. Steve had been standing guard with a rifle not a knife so even if the creature – ghoul? – had escaped there would be gunshot wounds not knife wounds. Of course, now Dean knows there could be more than one ghoul out there imitating his father. This doesn't have to be the one from the trunk, this could be a different ghoul sent to lure them into a trap.

Possibilities whirl through his mind and his lungs burn from lack of oxygen as he watches the thing that might be his dad stop its forward progress, grimace as though it's in pain, and pass a grubby hand over its forehead in an achingly familiar gesture of discomfort, the one his dad always seems to use whenever he gets near either of his two sons and especially when both boys are together. Then its head jerks up and it begins peering intently into the undergrowth beside the well worn path, luckily in the opposite direction from where he and Sam are crouching, hidden in the dusky twilight.

"Dean! Sam! I know you're here somewhere boys. Are you…are you alright?" Its voice cracks and its head drops down to its chest, the picture of dejection. "The ghouls didn't get you, did they?" It whispers brokenly.

Sam sends every negative emotion that exists along their connecting link, but removes his hand from Dean's face. _Don't fall for it. It could all be an act._

Finally able to get a breath of air, Dean carefully fills his lungs and rolls his eyes at his brother as he quietly exhales. _Duh_.

The man's head comes up and he seems to gather himself together. "Okay, I get it. There's no way I'd come out if I were you. I taught you better than that. Hell, I'd probably be pissed if you trusted me right now 'cause if you guys are here that means you know what we're up against." He heaves a sigh and rubs distractedly at his temple. "I just hope you boys brought backup."

The muscles in Sam's jaw bunch, contract and release rhythmically, a sure sign that he's upset, and Dean wonders how they're going to get past this stalemate. The dad-like creature - he refuses to think of that thing as his dad until he has some stone-cold proof - doesn't seem to be going anywhere, as stubborn as their father and annoyingly steadfast in its belief that John's sons are nearby despite the fact that he doesn't seem to have located them yet in the approaching darkness. Dean wishes he knew what had given them away since he's sure they didn't made a sound or do anything to clue the monster in to their presence. Oh well, it doesn't matter at this point. What's done is done, no way to go back and change it.

Concern buzzes through the brothers' bond, constant like a persistent low-grade fever. Sammy's worried about him and really?…that's not surprising considering his recent melt-downs. He hates that feeling of slipping away, of leaving Sam behind to worry and handle whatever the current crisis happens to be. He hates that the defense mechanisms he's accustomed to using seem to be turning against him. Instead of letting him hide his insecurities they're exposing him. The emotion sharing thing with Sam takes away his ability to keep most of his secrets intact, but this…this is even worse. This is like waving a red flag and screaming, 'I'm a wreck, come take a look at how messed up I am,' and Dean hates it. Sam had said everything about the Wish turns out to be beneficial, but Dean's not so sure. It seems as though they could be getting into some questionable territory here.

Confessions of mind control powers and freaky trances aside though, Dean has to admit he feels oddly in control of himself right now, his mind clearer and sharper than before this whole disaster began. It's like he's more focused or something. Whatever. It's weird, but it's good because when their dad – or the ghoul – starts talking again, he's able to listen and concentrate on every nuance, filtering out his doubts and anxiety.

"All right, we need to keep moving. The ghouls could discover I've escaped at any moment and when they do they'll come looking for me. I'm like some kind of prize trophy or something, me and some other hunter they caught." Cocking his head to the side, the man seems to think for a second. "They weren't anywhere to be seen this afternoon. Normally there's at least a dozen ghouls swarming all over that clearing. I took my chance at escape when they didn't show up to stoke the bonfire at the regular time. Did you boys have something to do with that?" He pauses as though maybe someone is going to answer.

No one does.

"Anyway, I'm thinking I'll just keep walking the way I was goin'. This path should meet up with the main road unless I'm totally turned around. And you two can follow, stay out of sight if you want, that's fine by me. I won't look for you. I'll tell you everything I know about those monsters as I'm walking, everything I've learned about them and that unholy Lich since they captured me…I don't even know how many days ago." A look of confusion crosses his face. The flash is brief, difficult to see in the dying light, and then it's gone, leaving the customary frown in its place. "Maybe something I say along the way will convince you I really am your dad."

Darting his eyes at his brother, Dean gives a tight shrug of one shoulder and a slight nod of his head. Seeing as how they can't stay where they are waiting for the ghouls to show up, he thinks it might be best to keep an eye on this man whether he turns out to be their father or simply another ghoul and yeah, the dry leaves and debris will definitely give away their location once they start moving, but they'll still have the advantage of weapons, his shotgun and Sam's handgun. The man looks to be unarmed and barely able to stay on his feet although that could all be part of an act, it's hard to tell for sure. Depending on his brother's decision, Dean is willing to take the risk.

"Okay then." The bedraggled looking man inclines his head as though he's received agreement, takes a few faltering steps forward, and starts talking to the empty space around him. "Ghouls by themselves aren't much of a threat to humans, not to those of us who are alive and kicking anyway. The ones we're dealing with here though, well they're a bit of a different story because they've hooked up with a Lich. You know what a Lich is? I don't think I've ever told you about'em. No need to. There aren't many of the soul-suckers around, thank god." The way the man is speaking, like he's giving a lesson, is so intimately familiar that Dean is immediately reminded of thousands of other lectures given in that same baritone voice and it chills him to the bone.

As the hunched and stumbling figure of their dad gets farther away and his voice gets harder to hear due to the increasing distance, Sam gestures for Dean to climb onto his back piggyback style. Dean's not thrilled by the idea, the position is restrictive, makes it hard for him to be of any help to Sam, makes it hard for him to move quickly if he needs to, but who's he kidding, he's not able to move faster than a hitching walk with his leg all braced up anyway, especially as they'll probably be staying off the trail amongst the thicker foliage and out of sight for now. His lower lip pokes out before he can do anything to stop it.

Even though Dean only scuffles the leaves around a little as he's clambering onto his brother's back, the man on the path ahead of them stops and tilts his head in a posture of rapt attention. He can't see it from this angle because the man's head never turns their way, but Dean imagines a look of smug triumph on his father's face and tightens one arm around his brother's neck while adjusting his grip on the shotgun in his other hand. He's ridiculously grateful for the lush undergrowth and the quickly setting sun which is casting more shifting shadows than light, making it easy to keep hidden.

His chance to reload the shotgun is gone for the time being and he won't be able to accomplish it while perched on his brother's back. At least Sam still has a fresh clip. Dean lets his mind conjure a picture of pulling the trigger and watching his dad's head explode in a spray of blood and brains. His stomach lurches and suddenly he's glad he didn't take the opportunity to reload when he had it.

Rigidly facing forward, apparently afraid of spooking them by turning toward the source of the noise, their dad begins walking again, continuing his monologue. "So a Lich is a spell-caster, kind of like a warlock or a sorcerer, only he specializes in spells that draw the life out of others to prolong his own miserable existence. The longer a Lich lives the more powerful it becomes. Some are able to store the life they suck from their victims in a crystal or a gem making them nearly impossible to kill unless you can find and crush the crystal first."

Sam stands, supporting Dean's weight with an arm behind his back and pulling the Glock from his waistband to have it handy. It's not difficult for the two brothers to match the man's limping pace even though they both have to duck occasionally to avoid low overhanging branches. The crackling underbrush is unavoidable as they move, but their dad sticks to his side of the bargain and doesn't turn his head to look for them.

"I was worried about you boys, you know? Have you been taking care of each other?"

The change in topic jolts Dean out of the comfortable mindset he's trying to create, convincing himself that the injured man on the trail isn't his dad, he's just a man or maybe a monster, but in either case he's not anyone important to Dean and if they have to shoot him it's no big deal.

Their dad nods at the empty space in front of him. "Yeah, I know you have been. Sam, I don't even know if you're an adult or a kid right now. Wish I could get a good look at you, make sure you're alright. What are you two doing out here anyway? You shouldn't be here." His voice takes on a hard edge, concern warring with anger. "It was stupid and reckless, coming out here."

Sam's back stiffens.

Receiving a dressing down from his dad…wow, that hits a little too close to home. Dean's breath catches in his throat.

"Never mind." The man squeezes the bridge of his nose between a forefinger and thumb, groaning softly. "You're here so we'll just have to…I don't know." He seems to lose his train of thought and when he speaks again his voice is slightly slurred. "We'll have to…we'll figure something out." Then he staggers sideways, and slumps to the ground, seemingly unconscious.

Sam freezes in indecision and then exhales roughly. "Great, what do we do now? Leave him here? Go get the others?" He's whispering, but Dean can both sense and hear the sarcasm loud and clear. The Glock in his brother's hand never wavers, pointed unerringly at the downed man's head. Sam obviously isn't taking any chances and Dean doesn't blame him.

Dean squirms and kicks at Sam's hip to be put down. It makes him feel like a toddler, but hey, it's effective. Once his feet touch the ground he says, "We can't leave him here. The ghouls…and what if…?" The sentence hangs there unfinished. He can't bring himself to say it, not yet.

"Yeah, okay." With a firm hand on Dean's shoulder, holding him in place as if Dean might bolt to his father's aid at any second or just bolt period, Sam stares at the unmoving figure lying on the trail. "How about this, we move him off the path, hide him under some debris and then go get the others?"

Dean sort of despises the idea. It feels like leaving a man behind, something that goes against every instinct he has, every fiber of his being screams that its wrong, and he has to remind himself – again – that this isn't necessarily a man at all much less his father. To think of him as their dad opens him up to a world of disappointment if it turns out to be another random ghoul, disappointment that could very well end him.

They don't have any other choice though and just as he's about to agree to Sam's plan, a voice reaches them from up ahead. Bobby's voice, sounding brusque and forceful even if completely stressed, precedes the gruff hunter as he charges around a curve in the trail. Steve is right behind him followed closely by Stan, Brian and Dustin. "It shouldn't be much further. Keep your eyes and ears open and your guns ready."

Overwhelming relief washes through him even as Dean does a quick mental tally and notices that Gage and Kevin are missing from the group.

The second Bobby sees the unconscious man on the trail he stops so suddenly that Steve can't avoid running smack into him. "Well, I'll be damned." Bobby murmurs, bringing his flashlight and gun to bear on the man at the same time.

"Bobby!" Sam announces their presence as they step out of the sheltering shadows and onto the path.

At the sound of Sam's voice, Steve's head jerks up from where he'd been staring at the bloody form of yet another John Winchester. "Sam, Dean, you're okay." He says and rushes forward to clasp them each on the shoulder before pulling Dean into a fervent hug.

"Blast it all, you two are gonna put me in an early grave." Bobby's face softens, the tension draining from his posture. "I gotta tell you though…you did me proud back there, kept your heads and followed the plan." The older hunter gives them a wry smile. "I'm real glad you're alright."

The approval gives Dean a surge of warmth. Coming from Bobby, it means almost as much to him as if the words had been spoken by Sammy or his dad.

"Way to go, little buddy!" Stan cuffs Dean good-naturedly on the arm.

"How'd you get away, Bobby?" Sam asks. "The last we saw you had a dozen ghouls and the Lich hot on your trail."

"Outmaneuvered'em and left a false trail." Bobby grimaces. "Ghouls ain't too bright."

"You've said that before." Dean takes the rare opportunity to tease the man who is as close to him as family, feeling almost giddy at being back in the company of the other hunters and finding out his friends are safe.

"Yeah well, it's true." Bobby raises an eyebrow as though he's been challenged.

Sam laughs. "We're not doubting you, Bobby."

"I hate to break up this happy reunion, but…how do we know they're really Sam and Dean?" Dustin's cynical smile doesn't hide the hard set of his jaw or the feral glint in his amber eyes. "I mean, Bobby says we're dealing with ghouls, and not any ordinary ghouls, but ghouls that can take on the appearance of a living, breathing person just by having a little snack. He says he saw multiple ghouls that all looked like the same person. That's not normal. So how do we know they aren't ghouls dressed up like Sam and Dean, sent to gain our confidence?"

Brian's eyes narrow suspiciously as he glances from Sam to Dean and back again. His hand goes to the gun he had stuffed into the pocket of his jacket moments ago.

Dean feels a tug on his coat and realizes it's Sam subtly trying to pull him out of the line of fire should there be any.

"Now hold on. Everybody just keep your pants on." Bobby glares at Dustin and raises his gun into the air, finger off the trigger like he's trying to set an example for everyone else to follow. "Let's not go jumping to conclusions."

Brian relaxes and nods his head. "Bobby's right. This isn't the time or the place. We should get everyone back to the cars and figure out where to go from there." Pointing at John, he says, "Someone help me with him and let's go."

The trek back to the cars is tense and quiet. Brian and Steve end up hauling John's unconscious body and Dustin opts to bring up the rear. He makes no attempt to conceal his continued distrust of Sam and Dean, going as far as to insist all weapons be taken from them before they all move out.

His good mood at being among friends dashed, Dean finds himself on the receiving end of his brother's protectiveness once again when Sam makes a point of walking directly behind Dean, shielding him from Dustin with his own body. He pushes irritation at his self-appointed bodyguard, but his annoyance is only met with steel hard determination and Dean can only sigh in resignation while clomping along with his braced leg making faint metallic sounds that he doesn't try to avoid. It's as much of a temper tantrum as he can safely get away with.

Once they reach the cars they are greeted enthusiastically by Gage and Kevin.

Thumping his father on the back, Kevin grins. "Everyone seems to be accounted for. Looks like operation 'rescue Sam and Dean' was successful!"

"Maybe, maybe not." Dustin replies dryly.

The smile on Kevin's face slips as he glances from one somber face to the next. "What's going on?"

After Kevin and Gage are brought up to speed on recent events Brian clears his throat. "I think I might know a way to tell the difference between a ghoul and a human. If I'm right we can clear this mess up, make sure we're dealing with the real Sam, Dean and John, and get on with the job we came here to do. All we need is a little bit of blood."

To be continued.

**A/N: My writing class is going well, but it's certainly not boosting my ego very much. Then again, I didn't take the class to be told what I great writer I am, I took the class to improve my writing. That being said, I sure could use some encouragement. Your reviews mean the world to me. Thanks for your interest in this story. **


	15. Leap of Faith

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: As some of you already know, my computer crashed recently, taking ~5,000 words of Chapter 15 with it. Although at first I had high hopes that the chapter would be recovered off the hard drive, it turned out that nothing was able to be salvaged and there were no backups or printed copies. I went home from work that day and had a glass of wine. The next day, I mourned the loss of the chapter and all the hours of agonizing over every sentence I had done to get it soooooo close to being posted only to have it disappear into nothingness. The day after that I started writing again. This is the result. **

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 15 Leap of Faith**

Of all the hunters Pastor Jim sent to help them, Sam respects Brian the most. From the way the man speaks and the way he dresses it's obvious that he's ex-military. And his son, Kevin, is a chip off the old block, mimicking many of his father's mannerisms and his crisp style of interacting with others. So yeah, Brian shares the military thing with John which makes him seem somewhat familiar to Sam, but what really sets Brian apart from the other, volatile hunters is the calm, methodical way he approaches every problem in the midst of ongoing chaos. It's this respect he has for the older hunter that keeps Sam from jumping down the man's throat at the mention of using blood for some kind of test.

Blood rituals are dark and frequently deadly. An image of his brother being forcefully held down by Kevin while Dustin, sneering maliciously and chanting Latin phrases, slides a machete down the length of the boy's forearm pops into his mind. Sam bites the inside of his cheek and shakes his head to dispel the horrifying scene.

"Now hold on here," Steve says. "I'm still trying to wrap my head around some of this stuff, so you guys are going to have to help me out. If there's a way to tell whether a person is really a ghoul, how come we haven't used it already on Dean's dad…or, you know, the fella we have locked in the trunk?" He grimaces like the idea of locking someone in the trunk is distasteful to him. Sam supposes he should feel the same kind of discomfort, but he doesn't. Not in these circumstances.

"There ain't no test for ghoulism that I've ever heard of." Bobby's tone is defensive. "Taking blood from these boys ain't gonna prove jack squat."

Brian pulls his car keys from the pocket of his army jacket and tosses them into the air, catching them again neatly. "Let's find a motel, preferably something a town or two over where people are less likely to be suspicious of a bunch of strangers, and I'll explain my idea."

"The sooner we get out of here the sooner we can start planning what to do next." Kevin agrees. "Besides, I think those people we saw tied up in the clearing during our recon will thank us to hurry this rescue along a little bit."

"Yeah, especially Bill Harvelle. Bill's there too. I saw him," says Brain.

Wait…what? People staked out in a clearing? This is new information and Sam is left reeling from a disconcerting sense of déjà vu because that sounds exactly like his dream. And what had the latest version of John Winchester said before it had passed out? Something about a bonfire. How is this even possible? Sam's heart is beating a mile a minute and he's struggling not to outwardly show his shock when he feels his brother lean into his side. At first he thinks maybe Dean is just as upset as he is about his apparent premonition, but then he realizes that Dean isn't asking for comfort, he's offering it. His brother can feel how close he is to losing it and is trying to silently hold him together. Sam lets the boy's warmth soak into his side and slowly relaxes.

Completely oblivious to Sam's mini freak out, Stan begins pointing an imaginary gun and pretending to fire it repeatedly. "Oh come on man, how much planning do we need to do. It's just a bunch of stupid ghouls. We can take them out no problem, like shooting fish in a barrel."

"It's not the ghouls we have to worry about, you doofus, - it's the Lich – those things are damn hard to kill." Bobby glares at Stan until the beefy, young man inclines his head in acknowledgement.

Sam starts to move towards Bobby's car. He needs a chance to sit and think. An iron-hard grip on his arm stops him.

"Not so fast," Dustin says. "You and Dean aren't riding with Bobby. In fact, everyone is getting split apart. I don't trust _any_ of you guys. Who's to say the ghouls didn't get to one of the three groups we had going into the nature preserve. Brian, you and Kevin went in together; you could both be ghouls for all I know." His eyes narrow to suspicious slits.

Brian shrugs. "What do you suggest?"

"I'll take Dean with me and Sam can go with…I don't care…Sam can go with Gage. As long as the hunting groups don't stay together, it doesn't matter to me."

Fixing Dustin with a stone-cold glare, Sam says, "That's not gonna happen so you can just forget about it right now. No way is Dean going with you." He sees Steve nod his head emphatically out of the corner of his eye.

"Amen to that." Bobby adds.

Brian steps in to be the intermediary. "Dean and Sam can both go with Gage, I'll take John or whoever this turns out to be," he indicates the unconscious man still hanging limply between him and Steve, "and everyone else can find someone to ride with that they weren't teamed up with earlier today. Does that suit you, Dustin?"

Dustin scowls, but doesn't put up anymore of a protest.

Sam understands Dustin's concern. He totally does. Ghouls can look like anybody and until they have a proven way to determine human from ghoul they can't be too careful. Just because he understands doesn't make him feel all warm and fuzzy about Dustin though. The guy's being a jerk and what's more, he's a dangerous jerk with an arsenal full of weapons at his disposal.

When he and Dean reach Gage's SUV, the dark-skinned hunter tilts his head toward Dustin and says, "Don't let Dustin worry you. He can be a cold, hard, pain in the rear, but he's not going to go postal on us." Gage's smile is genuine. His white teeth and the silver bar through his eyebrow gleam in the light cast by the car's overhead bulb as he opens the door to get into the driver's seat.

"We're not worried," Dean says and the stark indignation in the boy's tone would have Sam smiling if his thoughts left any room at all for amusement.

Stifling a groan, Sam climbs into the back seat and melts into the cushions, letting the soft fabric absorb some of the fatigue and strain in the muscles of his shoulders and back. Gage lifts his eyebrows in a clear question as both Sam and Dean opt to sit in back then he gives a carefree little shrug and fulfills his new role as chauffer by starting the ignition and cranking up the heat.

Gage's SUV isn't the Impala, isn't even close, but Sam takes a measure of comfort in the dual stereo sound of both his door and Dean's squeaking closed at the exact same moment, almost as if broadcasting how perfectly synchronized they are with each other, how in tune.

The weight of his brother's stare makes him roll his head sideways to face the boy sitting next to him in the backseat. Dean's voice is hushed when he asks, "Are you okay?"

Of course, a psycho hunter pointing a gun at him mere minutes ago doesn't bother Dean, but the idea that Sam might not be one hundred percent okay makes him anxious. Typical.

Sam pushes some of his latent amusement across their bond. _I'm peachy_.

Dean nods and lets his head flop back into the headrest, closing his eyes.

Thinking about his premonition will probably make him go crazy, so Sam wonders about Brian's ghoul test instead. He wonders what the test will entail then he wonders how much blood will be needed then he wonders if he'll be able to talk the other hunters into only testing John and himself, leaving Dean alone. One thought leads to another and before long Gage is pulling into a parking spot outside the Counting Sheep Inn.

The sign at the front of the motel has a cartoon picture of a sheep wearing an old fashioned sleeping cap and a pair of baby blue pajamas. Hopefully the sign isn't hinting at the rooms' décor because cartoon sheep staring at him all night long might just push Sam over the edge. He watches as Bobby walks into the lobby to get rooms for everyone. Through the glass door he sees the clerk, a middle-aged man with a bad dye job, hand over five keys dangling from tacky key chains.

Their rooms are all on the ground floor behind the main building where there won't be much traffic and no one should see them carry in John number one who is bound, gagged and struggling or John number two who looks like he was on the losing end of a fight with a swarm of razor blades.

Everyone piles into one room despite the cramped quarters, leaving the other four rooms vacant for now. Ten grown men and one boy squeezed into a motel room must be some kind of record, but they manage it because no one wants to miss out on hearing Brian's idea first hand. Plus, Dustin is still putting up a stink about wanting to keep everyone where he can see them. His distrust hasn't abated during the ride from the nature preserve and the word 'overkill' comes to Sam's mind. Wisely, he keeps his mouth shut and his ideas to himself.

Two queen-sized beds dominate the room. The hunters put them to good use by piling all the gear they bring in from their cars on them. Between the bathroom and the second bed is a windowless corner space. That's where they unceremoniously dump both John Winchester clones.

Kevin, the last person to enter the room, turns to scan the alley and parking lot visible through the door a final time. Satisfied that no one is watching and that the dark recesses hold nothing out of the ordinary, he closes the door firmly and turns to his father. "Okay, let's hear about this test of yours. How can we tell which of them is really a ghoul in disguise?" He waves his hand at the corner of the room and the conscious John's face goes a livid red color as he tries to shout something through the rag in his mouth.

"Yeah, I think we're all curious to know what you have floating around in that head of yours." Bobby crosses his arms over his chest and gives Brian a probing look.

"Right, well…I think we can all agree the ghouls in that forest are unlike any ghouls we've ever seen before." Glancing around the room, Brian continues when he sees many of the heads bobbing acknowledgment. "From everything I've ever read or seen it takes a substantial amount of…meat, for lack of a better word, to allow a ghoul to take on the shape and memories of its latest meal. I'm talking like…at least a pound of flesh from a fresh cadaver."

"Yeah, but these ghouls are eating live people, not dead ones. That could make a difference." Dustin points out.

"Exactly!" Brian grins triumphantly. "If you think about it, eating a live person should make it more difficult, not easier, for a ghoul to take over the form and certainly the memories of its victim. A live person is going to hold onto his own shape and memories much more strongly than a dead person. By the time a normal ghoul consumed enough flesh to reproduce the person's features exactly the person would most definitely be dead." Here Brian stops and looks pointedly at the two John Winchesters in the corner. "And that simply isn't the case here."

"I'm not following you." An exasperated crease appears between Bobby's eyes.

"Okay, let me ask you a question – what's the one thing these ghouls have that most ghouls don't?" Brian pauses expectantly.

Bobby's face clears, his earlier confusion draining away. "A Lich. These ghouls have a Lich."

"Bingo, they have a Lich, a powerful spellcaster. A spellcaster powerful enough to enhance the ghouls' abilities in just about any way it sees fit." Clearly pleased with himself, Brian rocks back on his heels, beaming at Bobby.

It only takes Kevin a moment before he too seems to be on the same page as his father. "And apparently this Lich wants the ghouls to be able to transform quickly, almost effortlessly. Somehow, it's reduced the amount of flesh they have to eat in order to transform so now multiple ghouls can take on the shape of the same person without killing their victim."

"That explains all the captives you saw in the woods." Gage fiddles with the tip of one long dreadlock, a gesture that makes the man look like he's completely uninterested in the discussion, but probably only means he's deep in thought. "You said they were all looking pretty rough, banged up and cut up, but they were all still alive."

"Why?" Dustin demands. "Why does it want them alive? And why does it want multiple ghouls running around wearing the same face?"

"Those are the twenty million dollar questions now, aren't they?" Brian holds Dustin in a steely gaze. "My personal belief is that it wants to generate as much confusion and panic as possible. What would be more terrifying to the local civilians than losing their friends and family only to see multiple copies of 'missing Aunt Ellen' or 'presumed dead Uncle Bert' causing havoc around town?"

Stan scrunches up his face and rubs the palms of his hands on his thighs. "I don't get it. Can you run that by me again? Even if any of that is really what's going on here, how does it help us figure out who's a ghoul and who isn't?"

Sam is glad Stan asked the question because he could use a refresher course on that one himself and he'd rather not sound like the hunter who had to take the short bus to school. He'll happily leave that distinction to Stan.

"Okay, keep an open mind and stay with me here," Brian says.

Steve snorts and mutters something under his breath that Sam can't hear.

Brian gives him a funny look before continuing. "What if the ghouls don't have any choice in the matter? What if the Lich has altered them, enhanced them, so that they change into whoever they snack on whether they want to or not?"

There's a beat of silence as everyone thinks about what that might mean and then Dustin begins to twirl a long, thin stiletto through his fingers, a look of idle exhilaration on his face. "Well, I guess that would give us a handy, dandy ghoul test, now wouldn't it? All we have to do is give a suspected ghoul a taste of someone else's blood and if they change…we got ourselves a ghoul. The best part is - we'd be using the Lich's powers and the ghoul's abilities against them to do it." His smile widens. "I like it."

Dustin's knife is moving so rapidly that it's just a blur of dull silver and Sam wonders if the guy knows how menacing it makes him look and if he's doing it on purpose.

A loud bang makes Sam jump and whip his head around to find the source of the threat. Instead of a monster he sees Steve, cradling his fist close to his chest, and a hole in the drywall next to him. By the raw scrapes on Steve's knuckles and the stormy look on the railway man's face, it's not hard to figure out what made the noise. "But we don't know for sure. I mean, are we supposed to just take a random leap in logic and assume this test will work? Where's the proof? Let's say we try Brian's test and nothing happens?"

Sam isn't surprised to see Steve reach his breaking point. It had to come sooner or later. The only surprise is that he lasted as long as he did. Speaking calmly, he says. "Steve, I know this all must seem a bit…farfetched to you, but sometimes we don't have any facts to go on. Sometimes we have to take a leap of faith."

Taking a roll of bandages from the first aid kit on one of the beds, Bobby makes quick work of patching up Steve's hand. "Sam's right – sometimes we don't know for certain what will work. This is a case of trial and error. The only thing we can do is give it a try. If one of us changes…we _know_ he's a ghoul. If not…well, it could mean Brain's theory is wrong or it could mean the person isn't a ghoul."

"One thing we do know." Dustin interjects. "At least one if not both of those two John Winchesters is really a ghoul. I say we test them first. If one of them changes then we know the test works." He pushes past Sam to get into the bathroom, emerging seconds later holding a plastic cup in a crinkly wrapper. "So…who wants to be the first blood donor?"

Everyone is just watching everyone else. Dean goes stock still beside him and Sam takes the break in conversation as an opportunity to check on his brother's emotional state. He finds that, like himself, Dean is feeling disgusted yet resigned to the idea of having to drink blood. After all, of the really horrible things the test could have entailed, this falls pretty low on the disturbing scale. There are a ton of other emotions there too, a confusing jumble of bewilderment, anxiety and excitement. The boy is doing a great job of hiding his turmoil behind a mask of indifference.

Come to think of it, Dean has been uncharacteristically quiet lately, rarely speaking to anyone other than Sam. It's not like him to be this introverted. Dean's not really the shy type and when it's just the two of them Dean is the opposite of quiet. Maybe the boy is intimidated by the other hunters. That actually makes a lot of sense based on the way dad has always stressed that Dean stay under the radar, do nothing that might bring the scrutiny of authority figures to their little family. To Dean, the other hunters are authority figures and he has been conditioned not to attract unwanted attention. For once Sam is glad for their father's strict training because he wants Dustin and Brian to forget Dean exists for a little while. The quieter the boy stays, the better.

Kevin breaks the silence by saying, "You're awful gung ho there, Dustin. Why don't you do it? Besides you're already holding the cup and knife."

With a scowl on his lean face, Dustin rips the wrapper from the disposable cup. "Fine," he snarls and making a loose fist around the slim blade of his stiletto, he draws the sharp edge across his palm. Ruby red blood pools in the cup until there's enough for a healthy swallow or two. Sam's stomach flips at the sight and a burst of saliva rushes into his mouth. Not that he's squeamish. He simply isn't looking forward to his turn.

Dustin thrusts the cup at Gage, the hunter standing closest to the corner of the room where both John Winchesters are laid out. "Here. Have fun."

The belligerent, unmarked John begins furiously struggling and grunting.

"Yes, you can go first." Stan rolls his eyes comically. "Jeez, some people are so impatient. They always gotta be the first to try anything new that comes along." He laughs at his own joke.

Gage isn't laughing though; he's deadly serious as he unties and yanks the rag out of his test subject's mouth.

Once free of the gag, the John wannabe clamps his mouth shut as tight as a vise. Undeterred, Gage digs his fingertips into the man's jaw, pries his mouth open, and pours the viscous liquid down his throat, holding his mouth closed until he has to swallow.

A hush falls over the room. Every eye is on the man they suspect is actually a ghoul. Minutes tick by on the clock sitting on the bedside table – ten minutes then fifteen pass and still nothing happens.

Miserable disappointment bounces between Sam and his brother, seeming to magnify with every passing second. Can this be real? Can this heartless, obnoxious man really be their father? What about all the cruel things he said to Dean? Did he mean them?

Drawn as though by a high powered magnet, Sam's gaze is pulled from John's face to his brother. Dean is standing rigidly, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. Sam watches as the boy's eyes widen and that's when he hears Steve gasp.

The sudden intake of breath makes Sam switch his focus back to John where he's surprised to see his dad's face shimmer and blur around the edges. The man - ghoul - begins trembling as though it's exerting tremendous effort to stop the transformation. Its efforts are in vain. John's thick, dark hair lightens and straightens, his brown eyes take on Dustin's distinctive amber hue, and his body becomes leaner and rangier until he's the splitting image of Dustin Porter in every possible way. Now there is only one John Winchester in the room and two Dustin's, as if one wasn't enough.

The ghoul-Dustin is too furious to speak coherently, spewing inarticulate curses and partial phrases.

Shoving the rag back into its mouth, Gage mocks, "Hold on to your britches. We'll be dealing with you in just a moment, cupcake." Then he holds the flimsy, plastic cup out to the real Dustin. "We need more of your blood for the other one."

Dustin takes the cup, frowning. "This is the last time. I'm just one guy, there's only so much of me to go around."

"Actually, you're two guys." Stan smirks, pointing between the real Dustin and his ghoul counterpart.

"Ha ha, you're hilarious, Stan." Dustin's frown stays firmly in place as he makes a second slash across the same palm. Blood wells up and drips into the cup. "One of you other jokers gets to bleed for the next test." He says, handing the cup with its vibrantly colored contents sloshing around at the very bottom back to Gage.

Gage simply grins, moves over to the remaining John, and tilts the man's head back on his lax neck.

"Wait!" Dean cries out and Sam immediately knows what the problem is because he's thinking the exact same thing.

"We should try to wake him up first." Sam explains his brother's outburst when the boy bites his lower lip, looking to him for support. "He should know what's happening." Odds are pretty good that this man really is their father and the least they can do is give him a head's up. Sam figures it's bad enough to have to swallow a mouth full of blood when you're expecting it. Returning to consciousness while a regiment of hostile hunters force feeds you some thick, foreign goo has to be one of the worst ways to wake up ever invented.

"Nah, this is easier." Gage says right before he upends the cup, pouring every last drop down the man's unresisting throat.

Gage is right, it's not difficult. The unconscious man on the floor moans and tries to cough as Gage holds his mouth closed, but eventually he swallows. "Wha—at's goin' on?" He stammers, clearly groggy and confused.

"Shut up and stay put, John." The tone of voice Bobby uses has the same commanding quality he uses to scold young Sam and Dean when they've made a mess in his scrap yard and Sam gets the strangest urge to bow his head and scuff his boots in the short motel room carpeting. He resists the compulsion just barely, but he sees his brother hitching his shoulders up around his ears in a classic remorseful pose.

John does what he's told, his slit-open eyes warily scanning the room, landing briefly on each hunter in turn until he gets to Sam and Dean where he lets his gaze rest. Everyone stares back at him, those farthest away craning their necks for a better view of the man on the other side of the bed in the corner. Slowly the minutes crawl by. At the thirty minute mark Stan clears his throat and Kevin shifts his weight from one foot to the other.

Dean takes a hesitant step forward. "Dad?"

"Yeah, Dean. It's me." John's haggard voice cracks from sheer exhaustion and an abundance of emotion. "I didn't think…I mean, I hoped…"

The prickle of unshed tears makes Sam blink his eyes rapidly and that's how Dustin catches him unprepared. He's simply not expecting it. Not right at that moment. His guard is down for only a split second and that's when Dustin pounces.

Just as Dean takes another tentative step away from Sam and toward their dad, Dustin's hand darts out like a striking cobra, wraps around the boy's arm and gives a sharp tug. The brace on his leg doesn't allow for sudden changes in direction and Dean overbalances, falling heavily into Dustin's side.

If his reaction time had only been a fraction of a second faster, Sam could have reached out and pulled Dean back. As it is, he can only watch the callous hunter trap his brother's arms in a tight hold and immobilize him against his chest. The knife Dustin grips in his free hand is way too close to the boy's throat to allow a rescue attempt. "The kid gets tested next."

"Lemme go." Dean snarls in a darn good imitation of their dad's voice at his most intimidating. Although he struggles and fights, the boy is no match for the wiry strength of the larger and more experienced hunter.

A low boiling rage ignites within Sam. Dean hasn't done anything to deserve being treated like a criminal or a monster and Sam wants to rip Dustin to shreds. The urge to do something, anything, to defend his brother is nearly all consuming. "Get. Your. Filthy. Hands. Off. Him." He says as clearly as he can through clenched teeth.

John tries to regain his feet only to collapse into the wall. Dustin retreats toward the bathroom, dragging Dean along with him, in response to the very real potential for violence he must be able to sense emanating from the boy's father.

"I'm not stupid. I've got eyes, you know? I can see there's something weird about Sam and this kid. I want to know what they're up to." Dustin sneers. "Someone give me some blood to feed _this_ one. I'd bet my truck they're both ghouls."

What Dustin thinks he saw Dean or Sam doing that has raised his suspicions, Sam hasn't got a clue. One thing is for sure though – Bobby was right, hunters are paranoid, dangerous and unpredictable.

"Dustin, this is a warning and you best take heed. If any harm comes to that boy you're gonna be in for a world of hurt." There's much more threat than warning in Bobby's tone.

"Oh come on. I know you all can see it too. I can't be the only one who thinks they're strange. The way they anticipate each other's movements? The way they can't be separated? Hell, I'd even swear Sam can tell us what Dean is thinking."

Steve chuckles without any humor. "Anyone can tell you what Dean's thinking right now – he's thinking up a million different ways to pay you back for this. If I were you I'd be sleeping with one eye open from now on."

The stormy look on Dean's face confirms Steve as a world-class mind reader and Sam is glad to feel the coiled anger coming from his brother. Anger is a good thing in this situation. They can work with anger. It's certainly better than some of the other emotions that have been wrecking havoc on the boy's state of mind lately.

Dustin looks around the room, obviously surprised not to find a single supporter. " I just want the kid tested next. Man, talk about overprotective." He backtracks, relaxing his arms and removing the knife from Dean's throat. As soon as the hunter's grip slackens, Dean wrenches his shoulders free. His brace makes a loud clanking noise when it hits the bed frame on his way back to Sam's side.

"You okay?" Sam asks even though he already knows the answer.

Dean presses his lips together and gives Sam a tight, angry nod.

"Nobody cares what you want, Dustin but…it makes sense to test Dean and Sam next." Brian says, matter-of-factly. He brushes past Dustin to enter the bathroom. The rustling sounds of a cup being removed from its wrapper can be heard and then the silky snick of a well-maintained switchblade opening. Moments later, Brian is standing in front of them, a fresh wound on his left bicep and two cups, each containing less than an inch of blood. "Bottoms up, men." He says, handing Dean one and Sam the other.

Well, there goes Sam's last hope for immunity from the test for his brother. Heaving a sigh, Sam takes the red liquid and raises it in a mock toast, hoping to lighten Dean's mood. "Down the hatch, kiddo."

To his surprise, the frown vanishes from the boy's face, replaced by a mischievous half-smile as if to say 'we'll show them'.

That smile, the first one Sam can remember his brother wearing since Bobby's house, makes Sam feel like whatever he has to do to keep Dean safe now and in the future is worth it. His brother is worth it. Dean's resilience is extraordinary and that's a very good thing. The boy is going to need it.

They drink together, matching grimaces on their faces.

"Nasty!" Dean exclaims.

"That's foul." Sam agrees.

Brian feigns offence. "Hey! That's my blood you're talking about."

Half an hour later, Dean and Sam still look like themselves and there are no additional Brian's in the room. Dustin looks like he's going to blow a gasket, but everyone else seems to take the non-event for granted.

"Your turn, Dustin," Sam says, taking much more enjoyment from the hunter's bitter resentment than he probably should.

"Maybe it's you who's the ghoul." Dean's smile is falsely innocent. His brother is anything but.

Dustin glares at him and Sam glares right back. He knows Dustin's suspicions are still firmly in place and that's okay because Sam isn't going to get caught unprepared by the amber-eyed hunter again.

Dean sends him a complicated series of emotions and Sam returns them. _I've got you're back. Always._

To be continued.

**A/N: My writing class is over and so is the reading I did on January 16****th****. If you are interested in knowing more about how they went you can go to my livejournal website to see the posts I made about them. I write under the name Disneymagics (with an 's' on the end) over there because someone already had the name Disneymagic.**

**I really, really, really appreciate hearing from you so if you can spare the time, please give me some feedback and let me know how I'm doing.**


	16. A Fair Trade

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: I wanted to try to get this chapter out quickly as a thank you to those still reading. I hope you enjoy. I'll try to continue a more timely posting pattern. And to Anon, thank you for all your wonderful feedback. Your reviews are always such a pleasure to read.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 16 A Fair Trade**

Halloween dawns crisp and clear and cold.

It's been two days since they got their dad back - their real dad, two days since he and his brother proved they weren't ghouls by drinking Brian's blood, two days since the rest of the hunters did the same, even Dustin, and two days since Gage and Stan took the ghoul that used to look like their father out to some mysterious location to 'deal' with it.

Two days ago, after the ghoul tests, his dad had wrapped one arm around him and one arm around Sam, fisted the material of their shirts tightly, and held on as if for dear life, misty-eyed and trembling. His dad is the only person Dean knows who can look as fierce as a grizzly bear and like he's about to break down and cry at the same time. Dean had hugged his father and told him that everything was going to be okay, that he just needed some rest and he'd be fine. Then Sam had helped Dad up while Dean and the other hunters had cleared the duffels and weapons off one of the beds so he could lie down and get some proper sleep.

Now, Dean sits on the motel room bed, moping while eating a donut and watching his brother discuss strategy with Brian, Bobby and their dad. Sam keeps throwing furtive glances his way like he thinks he's being sneaky. He's not. Dean can tell Sam wants to know why he's been so quiet. Problem is Dean doesn't really know why. Otherwise he'd clue Sam in. Honest. He would. Is it possible to be happy and sad at the same time?

Sam is right in the thick of the plans they're all making to hunt the Lich, one of the key players. He's studying the collection of papers, printouts, and maps they have pinned on the wall. Gone is the cute little boy who wanted to wear a blue shirt with an 'S' on it and a red cape so he could be Superman for Halloween and in his place is a mighty hunter. It's been an awfully long time since Dean has seen that mop-haired little boy with the big hazel eyes. He sort of misses the little squirt. It might have been fun to dress the munchkin up as Superman and take him trick or treating. That sure won't be happening now, not this year anyway.

Dad is doing that thing he does where he subconsciously rubs his thumb over the crease on his forehead. The gesture is so commonplace, like a default setting on a robot, that Dean doubts the man even knows he's doing it. Most of dad's cuts have scabbed over and now that he's had the chance to rest and eat a few meals that didn't consist of dried fruit, he doesn't seem to be any the worse for wear after his prolonged captivity.

Steve is off getting weapons training from Gage. The railway man had refused to leave, even though Sam and Dean had both assured him that they were okay and John had thanked him for all he'd done. It seems like Steve is determined to see this through to the end, especially now that he's witnessed something that can't be explained away, something obviously not human.

The other hunters are doing whatever they need to do to get ready for the upcoming showdown with the Lich and its ghoulish minions. No one seems to find it necessary to include Dean in their plans so he's stuck hanging around the motel room. Not that Sam or dad or even Bobby, for that matter, would let him go anywhere with the other hunters even if they had asked him to come along.

Stuffing the rest of his breakfast in his mouth, Dean flops back on the bed, letting his head bounce on the springy mattress and listening in on the strategy session.

"Let's go over it one more time." Brian says.

"Oh for the love of…how many times are we gonna hash this out?" Dad asks, his voice full of peevish frustration.

Dean finds his father's irritation comforting in its predictability. The man hates sharing his intel and has never played well with others. The last time he and Bobby tried to work a job together the shouting had gotten so loud that the neighbors had complained and the sheriff had come knocking on Bobby's door. Considering that Bobby's closest neighbor is half a mile down the road, it was quite an accomplishment.

"Just one more." Brian insists. "You were able to determine that the ritual will be held tonight. Are you sure of the time? Since we're counting on the ritual distracting the Lich as well as most of the ghouls it could be disastrous if we got the timing wrong."

Dad huffs and leans against the round wooden table next to the motel room door, crossing his arms over his chest. "Yeah, I'm sure. The Lich told me the ceremony would take place at sundown on All Hallow's Eve. It never got tired of gloating over how much more powerful it was going to become after the ritual was complete. It knew I was a hunter and it liked rubbing my face in my failure to stop it."

Brain nods thoughtfully. "I wish we had more information on the ceremony, you know, what it entails and what kind of power it's going to bestow on a creature that's already as powerful as a Lich."

"Yeah, me too." Dad rubs his forehead and moves away from Sam fractionally. "All it said about the ceremony was something about 'solidifying its control' and 'raising an army of ghouls to subjugate humanity', whatever that means. It used to tell me my kids – my family – were involved somehow, but it never said in what way. I think it just enjoyed screwing with me."

Dean wonders if dad caught his slip in time, holding his breath while waiting for Brian to start asking questions which would only lead to more lies – questions like 'That's right, you have another son don't you? Where is he anyway?' Dad knows better than to talk about his son Sammy in front of the other hunters. He must be more tired than he's letting on. The barrage of questions doesn't come though and Dean lets his breath out in a slow whoosh.

"The ghouls came after us a couple of times." Turning from the collage on the wall to face their dad, Sam speaks quietly as if he's getting ready to divulge a secret and he's not sure whether he should or not. "They didn't seem to be all that serious about capturing us though. It was more like they just wanted to toy with us, get their jollies. The one that looked like you…it – it said things…did things…it was pretty rough on Dean." He coughs and glances at Dean apologetically.

"I know." Dad's voice is a low, gravelly growl. "You already told me how his leg got all busted up."

Dean doesn't want to see anyone watching for his reaction to this exchange so he scrabbles off the bed as best he can with his leg brace and pretends to be absorbed by the important task of selecting a channel to watch on the TV.

"Do you think they were trying to lure you here, Sam?" He hears Bobby ask.

"You mean like maybe this is all some elaborate trap? I don't know…it's possible, I guess. The ghouls did try to separate us more than once and they seemed real interested in Dean."

There's a beat of silence before Brian says, "John, I have to ask, are you sure Dean should be involved in the rest of this hunt? I'm just saying, if this had been me ten years ago I might be looking for a safe place for Kevin to sit this one out. You heard Sam, we might be playing right into the Lich's hands by taking the boy with us."

"What's with you and all the questions, Brian? Yeah, I'm sure. Dean is staying with me." The volume of his father's voice gets louder as he continues. "He can handle himself just fine, same as Sam, and I'm not leaving him alone. He's safer with me then he would be if we left him behind somewhere. I'd think that was pretty obvious after that ghoul found them in the motel room and dislocated his kneecap!"

Of all the things his dad has just said, Dean is only really surprised by one of them and that one thing makes him whip his head around to stare at the man in astonishment. He knows his mouth is probably hanging open and his eyes are probably as big as saucers, but he can't spare the brain cells to care because his dad just told another hunter that he trusted Dean to come along on a full fledged hunt. Okay, maybe he didn't use those exact words, but still, he might as well have. The meaning is there if you read between the lines and that's the important part.

Brian shoots Sam a sly glance as though he expects the younger hunter to disagree. It's a fairly reasonable expectation what with how overwhelmingly protective Sam's been of his 'nephew' ever since Brian first met them.

"I wouldn't feel comfortable leaving Dean behind either. He's more than capable of handling some ghouls. He's got two over the rest of us already." A barrage of emotions accompany Sam's words, chief among them pride and confidence. Worry and concern are there too, in almost equal measure, but Dean chooses to ignore that for now and focus on the positive. "Besides, Red Team's mission is to sweep the cabin for anything the Lich may be using to store its collection of life energy. If everything goes the way we hope it does, the ghouls and Lich will be at the bonfire preparing for the ceremony, not at the cabin."

Dean has heard the plan so many times he could probably recite it in his sleep. There are three teams, each headed up by one of the senior hunters. Brian leads Kevin and Dustin on the Blue Team and their job is to put out the bonfire with the industrial strength fire extinguishers they bought specifically for that purpose. Bobby has Steve and Gage on his Green Team. Green Team's top priority is to destroy the sapphire amulet the Lich wears because dad says the Lich wears it all the time and Bobby says it's a good bet the Lich stores its life energy inside it. They'll use holy water to disable the Lich while they grab and smash the gem. Red Team is made up of his dad, Sam, and Stan. Oh yeah, and Dean. With the Lich and all the ghouls at the ceremony, Red Team will be at the cabin, looking for any other crystals the Lich might be using to store its life sustaining energy. If they find anything mystical-like they're going to destroy it, just in case. All three teams will be killing any and all ghouls on sight.

Putting his hands in the air, Brian takes an exaggerated step backwards and smiles disarmingly. "Okay, okay, I surrender. Dean is an integral member of the Red Team and woe to anyone who dares to suggest otherwise."

"Great, now that that's settled, can we get back to planning this hunt or do we all need to have a group hug first?" Bobby's acidic tone is in sharp contrast to the wink he sends Dean's way.

Dean grins back at the older hunter, letting his happiness and excitement bubble up inside him until he feels like he's glowing. He gets to be on the Red Team and his dad said he knew Dean could handle this hunt. It's everything he's always wanted to hear his dad say and it doesn't matter that the man's voice was hostile and argumentative when he said it.

Sam gives him a lingering look and then turns back to the detailed nature preserve map hanging on the wall. "Where did you say the clearing is, Brian?"

"Here." Brian circles a spot on the map with a permanent marker.

Jabbing an index finger at another spot, Bobby says, "And the forest ranger's cabin where we saw the Lich is here. Makes a lot of sense that the forest ranger was the first to go missing. The Lich must have commandeered the cabin as its base of operations first thing."

Brian dutifully draws a second circle around the indicated spot. "There's the better part of a mile between the two points. Luckily we have enough hunters here to cover every possibility."

"Dousing the bonfire is critical. I'm positive they need it for the ceremony. They kept it burning the entire time I was there." Three brand new fire extinguishers sit on the floor next to the dresser. Picking one up, Dad turns the large canister over in his hands as if he's testing its weight. "Brian, if you and your group can stop the ritual by putting out the bonfire, you should be buying us the time we need to kill the Lich before it can become even more powerful."

Bobby takes his cap off and scratches the back of his neck. "Holy water will slow the Lich down, but not for long. Kevin should be back pretty soon with all the jugs he was able to find. I've got a batch of holy water ready to fill them up with in the bathtub of my motel room." The older hunter places his cap back on his head.

"Holy water in the bathtub? I wonder if that's the way Pastor Jim makes the holy water he supplies to the church." Dean raises his eyebrows and makes his eyes go big and round.

"Smart aleck." Bobby grumbles.

Schooling his face into a serious expression, Sam asks, "Have you figured out how to kill it yet? The Lich?"

"The Lich can't be killed unless we've found and destroyed all the items it's using to store the life it collected from its victims over the years. There could be more than one, even though we're pretty sure the sapphire it wears is the main source of its power."

Sam looks at Dean conspiratorially and rolls his eyes. "I know, but what about after that."

"Don't roll your eyes at me, boy. You think I don't see you?" Bobby growls, wagging his finger at Sam. "It's just a matter of salting and burning the bones at that point. A Lich is nothing more than a walking, talking skeleton once you've destroyed the crystals. Anyone from the Green or the Blue team can light'em up at that point. Have a little bonfire of our own."

The color coded team names are Brian's idea. Dad calls them 'juvenile' and 'ridiculous' behind Brian's back, but Dean likes them a lot. They remind him of Star Wars when the resistance is fighting on the ice planet of Hoth. He's already given himself a super cool call sign. In his mind he's part of an epic battle between the good Rebel Forces and the evil Empire. Cupping his hand over his mouth, he makes his voice sound all muffled and staticky as if he's speaking through a crackly communication device. "Come in Red Leader this is Rogue 1."

"What's that, kiddo? Did you say something?" Sam grins.

Laughing, Dean shakes his head. "Just practicing." He feels his brother's confusion and answering playfulness.

"Oh yeah? What are you practicing? Are you practicing to be an astronaut?"

Dean snorts. "No Sam, I'm practicing to be a Jedi. You know, Star Wars? The Empire Strikes Back? Any of this ringing a bell?"

"Ah yes, Jedi training is very important." Nodding his head with a mock serious look on his face, Sam drops the small leather book he'd been holding onto the table and walks over to where Dean is standing. "So young Jedi, you want to take that brace off and see how your knee feels?"

"Really?" Truthfully, he'd gotten so used to the brace after wearing it 24/7 for the past several days that he'd nearly forgotten he'd be able to take it off this soon.

"Yeah, really." Sam nods. "Bobby said you'd be able to walk on it in a couple of days and it's been a couple of days. The ace bandage we have around your sprained ankle should be enough to support your weight as long as your knee is alright."

Dean shows his excitement by pumping a fist in the air. "Awesome!"

At first his knee is stiff and sore, but as he moves slowly around the motel room, making a circuit between the beds and into the bathroom, the stiffness begins to ease up and pain isn't as noticeable.

"How you doin' there, Dean?" Bobby asks from across the room.

"It's good." Beaming at the older hunter, Dean makes another lap, a little faster this time.

With a pleased look on his face, his brother watches his every move like a parent watching their child take his first steps. "You just need to work the kinks out, huh?"

All the attention is kind of embarrassing and Dean gets tired of providing entertainment for everyone in the room, not to mention the fact that his knee is protesting too much movement, too soon after taking the brace off. Giving Sam a grateful smile, he nonchalantly sits on the bed to catch his breath, hoping no one will notice his wince.

"Dean, I wanted to talk to you about something." Sam sits next to him on the bed, close enough that their conversation can't be overheard.

"Okay." Dean nods and waits for his brother to continue.

Averting his eyes as though he's embarrassed, Sam whispers, "You're going to be alright coming with us, aren't you?" He holds up a hand when Dean rushes to answer. "I mean, I don't want you to feel bad about having to kill the ghouls. They aren't people no matter how much they look like it and…"

"It's not going to happen again – that thing – you know, I'm not going to zone out again. I promise." Dean says fervently.

"I'm not afraid that you'll zone out, Dean. I'm afraid…I just want to make sure that if you see a ghoul, you don't hesitate. If you see a ghoul, you take off its head any way you can. I just don't want you to get hurt."

"Hey Sam, we need you back over here." Dad's call keeps Dean from having to answer. "And Dean, if you're looking for something to do, you can sharpen the knives.

The rest of the morning is spent on cleaning and checking every weapon they own, filling jugs with holy water, and making sure the fire extinguishers are operational. Three hours before sundown, the cars are loaded and the hunters are headed back to the nature preserve.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Trekking through the woods to the Lich's cabin feels the same and yet completely different from the last time they were here. For one thing, Dad is leading the group instead of Bobby. That, in and of itself, makes a huge difference. The whole vibe is more intense, there's no talking other than the curt commands his father issues. He knows his dad doesn't mean to be brusque. It's just his way, his hunting style. Dean has seen several hunting styles now and he's sure that when he develops his own style, it'll be much more fun than his dad's.

Dad always says hunting is a duty, an obligation, and Dean guesses that's probably true. He hasn't seen much actual hunting yet and what he has seen has been disturbing, disgusting and horrifying. But somehow, when it's all over, the bad parts fade away and what's left is the memory of his heart pounding, his blood pumping, and the adrenaline singing through his veins. The part he remembers is the part that's exciting, invigorating, and thrilling.

Hunting is inside him, it's all he's really interested in. Even though his dad's training regimen is demanding and takes every ounce of strength he has to complete, he'd still rather do laps for hours on end than crack a book…most days. Today is definitely one of those days and he hopes he gets the chance to prove worthy of his dad's trust, maybe help save someone. That would be totally cool.

Another difference between last time he followed this trail into the forest and this time is Stan. The young, burly hunter doesn't seem to know what to make of the oldest Winchester's approach to leadership. Stan's early attempts to crack a few jokes had been shut down with a stern frown and the shake of a head. Since then, Stan has been a bit on the surly side, overly polite in a sarcastic kind of way. Dean's expecting his dad to get tired of the insolence and punch the guy out. He would never dare talk to his dad the way Stan is.

Also, this time he's not sporting a heavy metal cast on his leg. For the most part his knee is holding up to the exercise. He doesn't mind putting up with the ocassional twinge as long as he can move better when he needs to.

"We should be approaching the cabin any minute now. Sam and Stan, I want the two of you to circle around back. Dean, you and I are going in from the front. There shouldn't be anyone here, they should all be at the bonfire, but do a quick weapon's check before we move out so we'll be ready for anything. Dean, you stay behind me at all times. Do I make myself clear?"

"Yes." Eager to show his dad how capable he is, Dean gets busy emptying and re-chambering the bullets in his shotgun even though he knows the gun is in perfect working condition and ready to go.

"Yes what, Dean?"

"Yes, sir." He quickly replies.

Stan snaps to attention and fires off a sloppy salute. "Locked and loaded and ready for action…sir."

Dean holds his breath, waiting for the inevitable take down, but his dad ignores the disrespectful tone. "Good, get going then and Sam," Dad gives his son a bracing look, full of a thousand unspoken words. "Be careful."

It hits Dean then that with all the other hunters around, Dad has been forced to treat his youngest son as the adult hunter he appears to be - and not even as his adult son, but as his adult brother. He wonders how his dad feels about sending Sam off with only Stan for back-up when in his mind he probably sees his six year old son standing there. For Dean, adult Sam and child Sammy are like two separate people and he doesn't have a problem treating them differently even though he loves them both.

He remembers the early days, when the Wish was brand new to them all, how they used to worry about grown up Sam reverting back to his child self before the crisis was fully over, but that's never happened. If anything, his transformation into an adult usually lasts longer than strictly necessary, giving them plenty of time on the other end of the crisis to wind down. Those post crisis days, the days with adult Sam when there are no monsters and no trauma, are like gold to Dean, something special to treasure.

"I'll be careful. You do the same." A worry line appears above Sam's eyes, almost hidden by his shaggy brown bangs. Patting Dean on the shoulder, he says, "Take care of your old man and stay out of trouble, kiddo. We'll meet up at the house."

Dean swallows and nods jerkily. Splitting up doesn't seem like such a great idea anymore, but Dad's already made the call and Dad knows best. Dean can't question a direct order. As he watches his brother and Stan cautiously stalk away to flank the cabin and anyone who might be inside, a feeling of unease settles in his gut.

Dad also watches to a point, giving the other two hunters time to get into position, then he steps forward. "Let's move out, Dean."

The cabin, when it comes into view, looks deserted. The glade is empty and silent except for the caw of a blackbird sitting among the leafless branches of a nearby oak tree. A rustic wooden rocking chair sits on the porch, giving the place a homey feel. Dean can imagine the park ranger sitting there in the evenings, drinking a beer and enjoying the peaceful quiet of the forest. It must have been a huge shock to be confronted by the Lich in a place as natural and undisturbed as this.

His dad takes point position and Dean falls in behind, just as he was instructed. They reach the porch without incident. There's no movement from inside the house, no sound either. So far everything is going according to plan. It looks like they were right about the ghouls and Lich all attending the bonfire event in the clearing, leaving no one behind to guard the cabin.

With his gun held at eye level, Dad swings the front door open and shines his flashlight into the large open area beyond. The beam of the light doesn't stop until it hits the back wall of the cabin. Dean's flashlight adds to the glow and by the diffuse illumination he can tell that the interior is mostly made up of one room that serves as kitchen, living area and bedroom. Furniture breaks the room into separate functional spaces, not walls.

A shadow shifts by the back door. It's not coming from inside the cabin which means that someone or something is outside. Dean focuses the beam of his flashlight on the back door and Dad does the same. Anyone coming through that door, whether it's Stan and Sam or someone else, will be blinded by the lights shining directly in their faces while Dad and Dean stay safely obscured in darkness. The light won't do any real damage to Sam, but if something else comes through that door, it'll give them a nice advantage.

The door opens swiftly and Stan barges through, followed by Sam.

Relief at seeing his brother safe and sound flares briefly right before he hears his dad's muttered, "Oh no."

Dean follows his father's gaze to where the beam of his flashlight has moved off Stan's face down near his feet.

"Stan, stop! Don't move!" The undeniable command and fear in his father's voice would have halted most seasoned hunters. If it had been him or Sam they would have obeyed without question, without thought. It's not either of them though, it's Stan.

"Why? What's up?" The beefy hunter asks, jumping sideways and ducking as though he thinks something is about to fall from above. By shifting sideways, Stan steps out of the elaborate sigil drawn in what looks like black spray paint on the hardwood floor in front of the back door, leaving Sam standing smack dab in the middle of it.

The sigil begins to glimmer an eerie blue and fine spider webs of blue light wrap around Sam's body, starting with his feet and rapidly moving up his legs to his thighs, hips, torso, and chest. Sam's eyes widen. "I can't move. I-I can't…" Panic laces his voice.

"Sam!" Dean cries and takes a step forward, intending to rush to his brother's aid, pull him out of the trap somehow.

"No Dean!" His father barks as he grabs his shoulder and yanks backwards. Only then does Dean glance down briefly to see a similar sigil painted in camouflaging colors on the floor in front of him. He doesn't spend any time worrying about what might happen if he steps into that rune though because all he wants to do is get to Sam.

His eyes lock with his brother's frightened ones and he begins thrashing in his father's grip. Dad has a hold of his arm and the material at his jacket collar and he won't let go.

The web of light wrapped around Sam gets brighter and then it pulses to the rhythm of a rapidly beating heart. Dean can feel the tempo as if it's his own heart thrumming inside his chest. On the fourth beat, the web contracts and Sam disappears…he just vanishes…right before their eyes.

With the absence of the pulsing light, Dean's heart forgets to beat, or at least that's how it feels as he chokes on a sob. He hears his dad talking, muttering something about a trap designed to be triggered by the second person entering the cabin, but he doesn't understand why that's important when his brother is gone.

Sam is gone.

Dad should be talking about how to get Sam back. Nothing else matters and if anyone will know what to do, it's their dad. Wanting to remind the man he idolizes of that fact, Dean grabs his elbow and shakes it. He looks up and is just about to tell his dad to fix this when he hears a dry, raspy chuckle that seems to be coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once.

"As you must have guessed by now, I have Sam." The brittle voice is unmistakably the Lich's even though the monster isn't visible. "I have Sam and I want you to know that he is going to die in agony unlike anything you could ever imagine."

Dean looks around wildly, trying desperately to find where the voice is coming from. Dad points his gun right, then left, then up, but the Lich is in none of those places. Swearing, Stan pulls a flask of holy water from his jacket pocket.

"There is a way out, however. I'm willing to bargain. Sam will die, unless…" The Lich's dry rattle of a voice pauses dramatically before continuing. "Unless you give me Dean. It's a fair trade I think. Sam for Dean. But consider carefully, for you won't be getting Dean back. The choice is yours…Sam or Dean. You have until midnight to make your decision. At midnight Sam dies."

To be continued.

**A/N: I geeked out big time while writing this chapter. I probably should have warned for excessive Star Wars references of something! LOL**

**I really, really, really appreciate hearing from you so if you can spare the time, please give me some feedback and let me know how I'm doing.**


	17. A Willing Sacrifice

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Compared to the last two chapters, this one is very short so I was able to get it posted fairly quickly. Unfortunately, I don't think it resolves the cliff-hanger situation very well. I hope you like it anyway. Thank you to everyone who continues to read this story and especially to those who take the time to leave a review.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 17 A Willing Sacrifice**

Sam hears his brother scream his name and sees the boy struggling to escape their father's tight grip before his vision greys out and he gets the strangest sensation of being jerked forward while his ears pop from a sudden pressure change.

When his vision clears, he's no longer standing in the cabin. Instead of a wooden floor, there's hard packed dirt under his feet and about ten yards in front of him is a blazing bonfire. It's a simple process to figure out where he is and who's responsible. Apparently, the Blue Team had been unable to extinguish the fire and Sam wonders what happened to the two teams of hunters who were supposed to be here right now. Had they even made it to the clearing at all or had they been ambushed on the way? The Lich seems to be two steps ahead of the hunters at every turn.

He's still encased in a net of shimmering blue light and every time it pulses he feels as though a fiery brand is being etched into his skin. Trying to reach into his jacket pocket for the bottle of holy water he knows is stashed there proves futile as he can move very little of his body below the neck. It's like being paralyzed from the neck down inside a furnace.

In order to distract himself from the pain, he surveys the portion of the clearing he can see given the restraint of his gleaming bonds. There are at least two dozen people tied to wooden beams driven into the ground, exactly like in his second dream only there are even more people and none of them are his dad. The placement of the beams seems to be random, however, in no case are the captives close enough to talk to one another, as if the ghouls want to increase their misery by isolating them, giving them no hope of human contact or comfort.

Some of them are tied with their hands above their heads and others have their hands tied behind them or out to the sides in a crucifixion type pose. Many of them appear to be unconscious…or dead. Sam does a little math in his head and calculates that some of these people have probably been here for a week, seven or eight days of exposure to the bitter cold, subsisting on water and whatever meager rations the ghouls have seen fit to feed them. It's no wonder they haven't got the energy to lift their heads or take notice of a new captive, even when that captive is bound in glowing blue, laser beams of light.

The ratio of ghouls to prisoners looks to be about even, one ghoul for every prisoner. Ghouls wander around the clearing, stopping to check a captive or tend to the bonfire sporadically. None of them approach Sam.

Even with his brother a mile away at the cabin, Sam can feel Dean's frantic desperation to get him back just as strongly as if the boy was right there next to him. If Sam closes his eyes, he can imagine his brother leaning against him, telling him that everything is going to be okay, and it's so much more than any of the other captives have that he _almost _feels guilty. The other captives are alone and without encouragement and Sam is awed to realize that will never happen to him. He hasn't really had the chance to think about his Wish in that way, but it's true. No matter what the ghouls do to him, no matter what the Lich has planned for him, he will never, EVER, be alone.

Movement to his right catches his attention and he turns his head as far as he is able. The Lich glides into view, the hem of its robe skimming just above the surface of the ground. "Sammy Winchester…" It scoffs thoughtfully. "Son of John Winchester, my trap wasn't meant for you. I was expecting…someone else. Never mind, all is not lost. You have your uses, especially since your father managed to slip through our fingers. This may actually work out for the best."

"John isn't my father, you dusty heap of bones." Sam glares at the Lich defiantly.

"Please, spare me the lies." The monster dismisses Sam's claim with the lofty wave of its grisly hand. "I know everything about you that your father knows and it's an interesting story, very interesting I must say. Unlike anything I have come across before. There must be some way for me to use it to my advantage. Some way…"

Sam gets the impression the Lich is talking mostly to itself as it hums and murmurs softly without asking or waiting for any response. It cocks its head and drifts around him, surveying him from all angles, bloodshot eyeballs protruding from the cracked, leathery skin of its face. After a brief moment, it reaches a claw-like hand into the folds of its robe and pulls out a black cube, as shiny and smooth as obsidian and small enough to fit easily on its palm. The scarlet light from the bonfire reflects off the cube's surface and seems to imbue the shape with a life of its own.

Holding the cube up to its mouth as though using a telephone, the Lich begins to talk, boasting about having captured Sam, making threats on Sam's life and generally being a pompous jackass. Although he can only hear one side of the conversation, it becomes clear to Sam immediately who the Lich is talking to when he feels the shock, fear, distress and anger coming from his brother ratchet up exponentially.

The Lich's parting shot at his father and brother is to offer a sinister trade – Dean's life for Sam's. It's the most repulsive thing Sam has ever heard. And also the most absurd.

"They'll never agree to your bargain." Sam spits out. "They'll never give you Dean."

"Oh, I'm counting on that." The Lich sneers, replacing the enchanted cube inside its moldy robe. "I don't need anyone to give me the boy. Nor do I actually want them to."

Sam stares at the Lich with a disbelieving look, willing the monster to continue. Bad guys love to monologue and the more information he can get out of the Lich, the more prepared he'll be to ruin its plans.

"I need a sacrifice, you see. Now, any old run-of-the-mill sacrifice will do. I could use any one of these louts and the spell would work just fine." Waving toward the scattered captives, the Lich obliges Sam's silent request for a longer explanation. "However…should I find a _willing_ sacrifice, my spell will be amplified ten-fold. You see, the notion of laying down one's life for another gets bandied about frequently. It's rather ridiculous how often you humans declare your desire to offer up your lives for your loved ones. There are books and songs aplenty extolling such great love. But to find someone who would truly be willing to forfeit their life…to walk of their own accord into a raging bonfire to be consumed by the flames in order to save another person, for example…well, that kind of love is very rare indeed."

Sam's heart jumps up into his throat and he has to close his eyes, concentrate only on taking his next breath for a moment. The Lich's words have shaken him deeply because he knows exactly what kind of love the monster is talking about. He's experienced it from both sides. Speaking past the lump in his throat, his voice rough with too many emotions to register, Sam grates out, "What do you know about love? You're nothing but a heartless monster."

The Lich's eyes flash angrily. "I knew as soon as I first laid eyes on your father that he had the qualities I needed. All I had to do was provide the right kind of incentive. That's why I originally wanted you or your brother. I didn't need you both so I sent the ghoul disguised as John Winchester to your motel room to select the best candidate for my purposes."

Understanding hits him hard. Sam remembers the race between himself and his brother and how Dean had tried to protect him from receiving a punishment by deliberately losing. It's no wonder the ghouls had focused most of their attention on Dean after that. "And it picked Dean." He says flatly.

"Yes, it picked Dean. A fine choice I think, having met the boy myself. I'm quite looking forward to having his self-sacrificing nature at my disposal. Although, you seem to have many of the right qualities also. How fortunate am I to have come across an entire family of martyrs?" The Lich's thin lips stretch into a wide, humorless grin. "And now there's something I must do while we wait for the dear lad to dodge his vigilant guard of imbecile hunters and race to your rescue. The force field I erected to shield this clearing from trespassers will need to be altered to let the boy through. Otherwise, his valiant efforts on your behalf will be in vain and we can't have that, now can we?" The last taunt is delivered over its shoulder as the Lich turns and glides away, leaving Sam with a lot to think about and some plans of his own to make.

He has to keep his brother from coming here. Of course, that's much easier said than done. Dean is resourceful and stubborn – a loaded combination and one Sam is usually happy to have working on his side. Now he has to find a way to thwart his brother's natural tendencies and he has to do it without words, using only their ability to communicate empathically.

A shift in his brother's emotions from scared and distraught to determined and resigned alerts Sam to the dangerous, but not unpredictable, turn the boy's thoughts have already taken.

Sam begins his offensive with the tried and true, pushing the standard emotions for _stay where you_ _are_ and _I'll find a way to come to you_ along the indestructible thread of their bond. Dean is far too clever to fall for it, but Sam has to give it a shot.

The response he gets back is instantaneous and adamant. _Don't worry, Sammy. I'm coming!_

So, in Dean's mind he's reverted to thinking of Sam as Sammy, his six year old little brother in need of help. That's going to be detrimental to Sam convincing the boy to stay away. Sam's going to have to try a different tactic. This one's a bit trickier because it requires some deceit. Taking a few deep breaths, Sam projects feelings of safety, calm and peace. He even tries to muster a kernel of happiness to send along and that's not easy considering the amount of discomfort he's in. _I'm okay. Everything is fine. I've got it covered._

A curious mixture of hope and doubt filter through their connection. For a couple of seconds it feels as though Dean might be buying it and then the doubt grows stronger, turning into skepticism and finally full-out incredulity tempered with hurt. _I don't believe you. Why are you lying to me? _

The only strategy Sam has left in his arsenal is one he hates to use against his brother, it's extreme and somewhat cruel, but nothing else is working and he's beginning to get desperate. He pushes anger and resentment at his brother, all the while feeling like the worst kind of heel. _Don't you dare come, Dean. I mean it! I don't need you._

His declaration is met with dejection, sadness and an answering anger that breaks Sam's heart. And then comes the crushing blow. He can tell Dean is smothering his emotions, trying to hide them even though they both know that's impossible. Through their link, Sam can sense the boy's reluctant affection despite the mental blocks he's putting between them. There's no hiding the intensity of the devotion Dean feels for him or the extent of his hurt feelings. _I'm coming whether you want me to or not._

Sam can imagine the look of betrayal on the boy's face and he knows he's responsible for putting it there. He can't do this anymore. It's time to give up on trying to convince his brother to stay away and focus on getting himself free so Dean doesn't walk straight into the Lich's greedy clutches.

Brian had said something about seeing the other hunter, Bill, here among the captives. If he can neutralize the magical bonds holding him and find that hunter among the prisoners, he'll have an ally here on the inside.

But before he loses himself in strategies and schemes, there's something he needs to do. He can't leave things the way they are between him and his brother. Using fondness and remorse, he sends another message. _I'm sorry for being such a jerk. I love you too, kiddo._

To be continued.

**A/N: If you're interested in an amusing and comical representation of a Lich, you can find one at the Giant in the Playground website. They have a clever and charming comic strip called _The Order of the Stick _which (for you fellow geeks out there) is about a little group of Dungeons & Dragons adventurers who are stick people. The main bad guy in the comic strip is a Lich. Now he doesn't look like my Lich because he really is just a walking, talking skeleton wearing a blue and red robe and my Lich is much more gruesome looking, but they do share some characteristics. The comic strip is free to read and there are over 800 pages of it.**

**I really, really, really appreciate hearing from you so if you can spare the time, please give me some feedback and let me know how I'm doing.**


	18. Not a Miracle in Sight

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: I started my new writing class yesterday and submitted this chapter for my classmates' consideration so you get the benefit of some of their feedback. I didn't make all of the changes they suggested because they aren't familiar with the show, but some of it was helpful. I hope you enjoy it. Thank you for your support.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 18 Not a Miracle in Sight**

Midnight is only three hours away – three short hours. Dean checks his watch again impatiently.

Ever since he, Dad and Stan had gotten back to the rendezvous spot at the entrance to the nature preserve and met the other hunters, who had totally failed to put out the bonfire - something about an invisible shield surrounding the clearing - one hunter after another had been glued to his side. First it had been Steve and after that had come Brian and then Gage. It's like they suspect…but no, that's impossible. How would they know what he was planning to do? So they must be taking turns babysitting him which is freaking annoying. He doesn't need a babysitter, much less an entire herd of them.

Acting is hard work and Dean really just wants everyone to leave him alone so he can stop pretending to be okay with all this waiting and get on with what he knows he needs to do. Right now it's Dustin sitting beside him in the backseat of Bobby's car. Dean makes his eyelids grow heavy and pretends to stifle a yawn as he listens to Dustin drone on. It's way too early and he's too keyed up to actually be tired, but Dustin is too dumb to be able to figure that out.

"So…you know, Bobby thinks he's figured out how to get through that force field thingy, right? Once he brings it down we'll be able to get your uncle out of there, no problem." Dustin squirms in his seat uncomfortably and his eyes dart over to Dean before shifting back down to his hands in his lap. "I guess you two are pretty tight, huh?"

Dean doesn't say anything, just nods and looks out the window, watching his dad draw lines and circles all over a map by the light of the cars' headlights while Kevin uses the tip of his knife to point and comment on whatever it is Dad is explaining. Bobby may have come up with a way to get into the clearing, but that doesn't mean it's going to work and it doesn't mean they'll get there in time. It doesn't change Dean's mind about what he has to do. He just needs to stay cool until no one's watching so he can duck out of the car and disappear into the forest, taking the path that leads to where the Lich is most likely holding his brother.

"Hey look…kid…Dean…" Dustin hesitates. "Gage says I was a… an idiot. Well, that's not the word he used, but I think you get the idea. Anyway, I guess he's probably right."

Not caring in the slightest about what Dustin is trying to tell him, Dean faces the rangy hunter, tips his head to the side until it touches the chilly glass window, and blinks slowly, feigning sleepiness.

Dustin huffs, cracks the knuckles on his left hand and then the right as though he has too much nervous energy to sit still. "You aren't gonna make this easy on me, are you? Maybe I don't deserve for you to. I'm just…look, I'm sorry about what went down with the ghoul test the other day. You and your uncle are close; I get that now. I just jumped to the wrong conclusion, you know?" He pauses to take a breath, shaking his head. "We'll get Sam back. He's going to be okay, kiddo."

Breath catching in his throat at that word, Dean forgets his 'I'm so sleepy I can barely keep my eyes open' act and sits up ramrod straight, hands clenched into fists. "Don't call me that! You don't get to call me that!"

Even with the windows of the car rolled up against the freezing cold outside, Dean can tell his shout has caught his father's attention because Dustin is making frantic calming gestures and his gaze is riveted on a spot over Dean's shoulder where he knows his dad is standing. "Okay, okay, I can tell you're wiped out. I'll just go now so you get some rest." Opening the car door, the normally callous man beats a hasty retreat.

The door slams shut and Dean is alone for the first time since promising his brother he would come help him. Never mind that Sam doesn't want his help. His brother is in trouble and Dean's going to get him out of it and that's really all there is to it. It's what big brothers do and yeah, he is the big brother despite the fact that Sam currently towers over him and calls him 'kiddo' and sticks up for him and gives him piggy back rides which he definitely does NOT enjoy. Not that he's going to admit anyway.

Relaxing his fists, he shakes the stiffness out of his hands and sits back in his seat, closing his eyes. He thinks about a blackboard. On the blackboard is a chalk drawing of Dustin Porter. Slowly and carefully, he erases Dustin away until the blackboard is completely blank. The trances come more easily if he can see the pictures in his mind and 'erasing' whatever is bothering him at the time seems to work really well. He's been practicing, mostly at night when everyone else is asleep, and he's getting better at controlling them, only sinking down a little bit, not letting them turn him into a zombie. He figures the trances are like a skill, something he can learn to use to make him a better hunter, and like all useful skills he needs to practice long enough to get it perfect.

When he slips into a trance it feels a little like daydreaming, like he's not quite there. He's already found a couple of ways they can be helpful. One he had found by accident while he was practicing moving around under trance and he bumped into the corner of the dresser in the dark. It should have hurt; the corner was sharp and he'd hit it hard. But it didn't. Since then he's tried going into a trance when he had a killer headache and when he cut his hand while sharpening his knife. The headache had gone away immediately and the cut had stopped hurting even though the bleeding hadn't let up. Of course, the pain had come back as soon as he surfaced. That's how he thinks of the process he uses to come out of the trance because it's like swimming up to the surface of a lake.

He can also use the trances to calm himself down and focus.

Once his breath is coming slow and shallow, Dean surfaces, opens his eyes and quietly gets out of the car on the side furthest away from the other hunters. Dustin has gone to talk to his dad and Kevin, standing in between them and Bobby's car, effectively blocking him from his father's sight. Hopefully, he's telling them that Dean is resting so no one else will feel the need to come talk to him.

Crouching next to the car, Dean begins backing out of the circle of light cast by the headlights from the hunters' cars. A twig snaps under his foot and he freezes, waiting to see if anyone will come investigate. The noise must not have been as loud as it seemed to him. None of the other hunters even look in his direction. Ten more stealthy, creeping steps and the forest swallows him up, completely hiding him from view.

As soon as he gets out of hearing range, he turns on his flashlight and breaks into a sprint. At least he tries to sprint. He only makes it a few strides though before his knee gives a warning pop. After that the sprint turns into a clumsy lope, but he's still covering pretty good ground.

The beam of his flashlight bounces ahead of him, illuminating the leaf-strewn path and the trees on either side. Occasionally, a startled pair of eyes will reflect the light back at him. Each time, Dean's heart slams rapidly in his ribcage for a beat or two as he anticipates meeting a ghoul or even the Lich before a deer or raccoon or some other harmless creature scurries away.

Running doesn't tire him out; he's used to running long distances. Dad's training sessions can be brutal and the man puts a lot of emphasis on endurance. Dean can run for miles without breaking a sweat or having to think about what he's doing so he uses the time it takes to get to the clearing to consider his plan.

Brian and Bobby had said their teams couldn't get into the clearing to extinguish the bonfire or take on the Lich because there was some kind of force field going all the way around. They'd tried coming at it from every angle and they couldn't find an opening. Dean isn't too worried about that though because the Lich wants him to come. It had said it would let Sam go if he came. The monster seems smart enough to know that it needs to give him a way in if it wants him so badly.

The ruddy glow of the bonfire is visible well before he gets to the clearing. The blaze is massive; flames and sparks shoot high into the night sky. A faint shimmering at the edge of the tree line extends in both directions and far over his head. Coming to a stop in front of what must be the force field, Dean studies the way the air appears to ripple. Like looking into a funhouse mirror, everything on the other side is recognizable yet distorted.

The clearing is large and he can't see every part of it, but he can easily make out the ghouls, both men and women, standing together in a strange formation at the back end of the open space. They aren't difficult to spot. They're the ones who aren't tied up. And there's the Lich, drifting back and forth among its followers, holding some small object high above its head. Dean wonders if the Lich has legs under its grungy robes or if it's simply able to hover at will.

Amidst all the captives, Sam stands out. His brother is still entirely wrapped in that eerily pulsing, blue webbing with only his head free of the stuff and he's the one closest to the gigantic pyre. The rest of the prisoners are tied to poles and arranged around the clearing as though they're all spectators to the main event. A flat-topped rock, about the size of a large dog, is also set center stage. A dark, pillar candle burns on the oddly shaped stone, surrounded by several smaller items he can't quite make out from this distance. Dean has been around long enough to recognize a altar when he sees one, crude though this one may be.

Sam's head is hanging forward with his chin against his chest, his crazy-long bangs hiding his eyes. He looks terrible, so sad and lost. Dean wants his brother to know he's close, that help is near, so he focuses on that bright strand within him, their bond, and pushes feelings of hope, relief, warmth and support along the empathic connection toward the familiar figure in the middle of the forest glade. _I'm here. I'll save you._

Cautiously lifting his head, Sam's gaze travels the edge of the tree line and Dean knows exactly when his brother sees him standing in the shadows because he gets a rush of negative emotions. _No no no no no no!_ The feelings are so strong they make him momentarily dizzy.

He knows his brother doesn't want him here and he can guess why, but that's just too bad. He's here and he's not leaving unless Sam leaves with him. The chances of them both walking out of this clearing are long, but Dean's not going down without a fight.

Walking up to the Lich and handing himself over with a ribbon and a bow like some sort of present isn't a part of his plan. He'd rather not get within a hundred yards of the Lich if at all possible. There has to be a way to get to his brother and avoid the monsters, although from what he can see so far, that may be asking for a miracle. Dean doesn't believe in miracles. He hasn't believed in miracles since he was four years old.

Superhero powers would come in handy right about now – invisibility would be pretty cool. If he could fly he could just swoop in, free Sam, and swoop back out again. Super strength might be nice or teleportation. Yeah, teleportation would be awesome, especially if he could take things and people with him. He doesn't have any sweet super powers like that though so he's going to have to do this the hard way.

Reaching out with one hand, he deliberately brushes his fingertips along the shimmering curtain of air in front of him. The other hunters had described it as an 'impenetrable shield' yet his fingers go right through it. As he had expected, the Lich wants to make sure Dean is able to get there to make the trade, to give himself up for his brother. He wiggles his fingers experimentally and, when nothing happens, he slides the rest of his body through.

The grass and scrub in the clearing only comes to mid-shin, even in the densest areas, and in some places, especially closer to the fire, nothing grows at all. None-the-less, he may be able to avoid detection for the amount of time it will take to sneak up to his brother and somehow free him of the mystical net. The ghouls aren't paying any attention to Sam and the Lich seems to be focused on whatever is happening on the opposite side of the glade.

Monsters aren't trustworthy and Dean doesn't believe the Lich will honor its promise to release Sam once the trade has been made. Better to make sure his brother is free before the monster realizes he has come.

Progress is slow, but by inching along only when he's sure no one is watching, he reaches Sam's side without the ghouls or the Lich being any the wiser. Sam shakes his head and whispers, "You shouldn't have come, Dean. They aren't going to let either one of us go."

Frowning, Dean whispers back, "Hush, I'm rescuing you." Without waiting for the arguments he's sure Sam is ready to unleash, he twines his fingers into the filaments of pulsing blue light attached to his brother's wrist and begins to pull as hard as he can.

The net immediately starts unraveling and Dean feels a momentary rush of excitement as the webbing appears to dissolve from around his brother's hand. Sam makes a noise that sounds like a hiccupping exhale and makes a fist with his newly freed hand, straining against his rapidly loosening bindings. Hoping the noise is one of happiness and not one of distress, Dean watches in amazement as the blue light contracts, shrinking into itself like cotton candy meeting water.

It only gets so far though before the light sparks and one long string of it arcs away from his brother's arm to curl around Dean's. In a matter of seconds the one string turns into thousands, all branching apart and chasing each other in every direction. As it wraps around him and pulls his arms and legs tightly together, it continues to detach from Sam.

Everywhere the blue light touches him feels like it's slicing through his flesh. Whether the net is touching his bare skin directly or lying on top of his heavy winter coat makes no difference to the intensity of the pain. It takes every ounce of his self control not to cry out in agony.

"No! No way!" Sam's voice comes out as a menacing rumble, low and gravely. He grabs a double handful of the enchanted mesh, which has already reached Dean's collarbone, and yanks it apart, the muscles in his arms bunching and cording with the effort.

There's no time to prepare for it. No time to find that peaceful inner core, to sink down and block the pain out, and all Dean can do is gasp while his brother struggles to rip the pulsing blue tangles of light off him.

How Sam lasted for hours trapped in this miserable stuff Dean has no idea because he's positive he's being flayed alive. Sam gives a final yank and the web slides right through him before evaporating away. Dean is surprised to look down at his hands and not find them laced by a crosshatching of searing red lacerations. His hands don't have a mark on them. His jeans aren't a tattered ruin of denim. Given the way every inch of his skin feels like it's going to peel from his body at any moment, his unscarred appearance doesn't make any sense.

Before he can give this much thought or even feel relief that he and his brother are both rid of the painful web, he hears a dry snicker. Looking up, he sees the Lich floating behind his brother, one long, crusty finger inches from Sam's exposed throat. "Ah Dean, I see you've arrived. How wonderful. We're almost ready for you." The monster's voice is so gritty it sounds like a desert wind blowing through a hollowed-out reed, brittle and raspy.

Glaring at the monster and its threatening pose way too close to his brother, Dean snarls, "You said you'd let Sam go if I came. A fair trade – me for him."

"I did say that and I shall keep my word, but there's something you need to do for me first."

The Lich's amused tone sends a shiver of revulsion down Dean's spine. A part of him wants to run, grab a hold of his brother and make a mad dash for the edge of the clearing, the path beyond, and the hunters making preparations at the cars. He wonders briefly if anyone has noticed he's missing yet, if Bobby has figured out how to get through the shield, if his dad is coming to get them.

The Lich must not like his hesitation because it presses its finger against Sam's neck. His brother screams and begins jerking as though he's being electrocuted.

All thoughts of fleeing vanish. "Stop! I'll do it. Whatever you want, I'll do it."

Dean isn't surprised at the way this is all playing out. Not really. The Lich holds all the cards; it has from the moment it captured Sam. His pitiful attempt to free Sam without making the trade was doomed to fail before he even stepped foot into the clearing. It was always going to end like this. Dean had known it all along, but he'd had to try.

Sam's screams echo around the clearing, making Dean's eardrums feel like they're about to burst, making it impossible for him to think. He'll do anything to stop the torture. He wasn't lying about that. He can't stand to hear his brother suffering.

In desperation, he launches himself at the Lich but it merely chortles, glides effortlessly backwards just enough that Dean stumbles and his hands slide harmlessly through the fabric of its robe. But finally drops its hand from Sam's neck.

With one last jerk, Sam crumples to the ground like a discarded toy.

"Now, now, none of that," The monster chides gleefully, shaking its head so that wispy, straw-colored hair falls onto gaunt cheekbones. "I only want you to be fully aware of the consequences of your actions. That was a sample…a sample of what's going to happen to poor Sam if you make the wrong choice."

Pitching to the side, Dean folds himself protectively over his brother's prone body, reassured by a soft moan and the steady rise and fall of the young man's chest. "What are you talking about? What choice?"

"Let me be blunt; you're going to die no matter what. The choice I am giving you is to either die a pointless, obscure death or to make the greatest sacrifice of all, to die so that your brother can go on to live a full and happy life." The Lich's protruding eyes gleam fanatically. "It won't be easy. Nothing truly worthwhile ever is. You'll have to be brave and strong, but I think if anyone can do it, it's you."

Dean licks his bottom lip and, looking down at Sam, he asks, "What do I have to do?"

Pointing into the blazing bonfire, the Lich answers, "At precisely midnight, you have to step into the conflagration and let yourself be consumed."

The mental picture he gets of standing in flames while his skin melts from his bones makes him gag. Spitting a mouthful of bile and saliva onto the ground, Dean whispers, "You want me to walk into the bonfire and let myself burn?"

"That is what I want, yes." Unfazed, the Lich blinks at him calmly.

"What if I won't do it? What if I can't?" Dean's breath hitches and his words crack as he wonders if it's even possible to do what the Lich is demanding.

"Then I'll have to make do with an unwilling sacrifice. I suppose I'll have Sam tied up and thrown onto the bonfire in your place."

Running a hand over his brother's mess of shaggy, brown hair, Dean watches as the young man twitches and groans softly. "But if I step into the fire myself you'll let Sam go?"

The Lich nods. "I will."

Dean looks at the Lich through stinging, watering eyes, weighing the truth in its expression against what he knows of monsters and their tendencies to lie.

The thing is – none of this comes as a huge shock to Dean. He's always been meant to give himself up for his brother and this is his opportunity to prove he has the guts to do it. He's…satisfied, yeah that's a good word for it, satisfied, like he's doing his job really well, like he's fulfilling his main purpose. The only part of this whole deal that really bugs him is that the Lich hasn't let Sam go yet and by the looks of things Dean may never know if the Lich is going to keep its end of the bargain.

All of that's not to say he isn't scared, 'cause he is, he's really scared. He's terrified. Burning to death has to be one of the worst possible ways to die. For a while now, he's wondered what it would feel like to have flames licking his arms, his legs, his face. He's wondered about that for six years, ever since his mom...but watching his brother get burned alive, listening to him scream and beg for help - that would be infinitely worse.

Wiping a shaking hand across his eyes, he stands up and takes a deep, shuddering breath. "I'll do it."

The Lich rubs its emaciated hands together, looking beyond pleased. "That's…good." At a summoning gesture from the monster, four ghouls break away from the group and jog over. "Have you prepared the chalice?"

One of the ghouls produces a sturdy, metal goblet with a thick base and rough edges. There are chunks of uncut gems sticking out from its sides. It looks heavy and the ghoul holds it awkwardly in both hands.

Taking the chalice reverently, the Lich sets it on the stone table beside the candle, removes the sapphire amulet from around its neck, and carefully places the crystal inside the chalice. Once this is done, the Lich begins to chant in a language Dean doesn't recognize.

Fifteen minutes until midnight according to his watch. There's a chance, no matter how small, that he can stall long enough for his dad and Bobby to get here. In the meantime, Dean thinks about a blackboard. On the blackboard is a chalk drawing of the Lich. Slowly and carefully, he erases the monster away until the blackboard is completely blank. As he sinks into the trance, he lets his entire body go numb.

To be continued.

**A/N: I have a question for you all. There are two paragraphs in this chapter that my writing classmates tell me should be deleted because they take away from the action of the scene, but I really want to know what avid watches of the show and, more importantly, my readers think. The two paragraphs I'm talking about are the ones that start off**_The thing is – none of this comes as a huge shock to Dean. _**And end with **_but watching his brother get burned alive, listening to him scream and beg for help - that would be infinitely worse._ **They are near the end of the chapter. You would be doing me a huge favor if you would weigh in on this issue.**

**I appreciate hearing from you so if you can spare the time, please give me some feedback and let me know how I'm doing.**


	19. Boy Gone Deep

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: Thank you for all your support throughout the long, long process of writing this story. I can hardly believe it's been a year since the first chapter of Bonded and Broken was posted. To those of you who have stayed with me from the beginning – I salute you! XOXO There will be one more chapter after this one.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 19 Boy Gone Deep**

Consciousness returns in fragmented pieces; a brittle voice singing, the grit of dirt and pebbles under his cheek, the frigid wind blowing against his face, the acrid smell of wood smoke clogging his nose.

His muscles spasm continuously, making it impossible to move. Even his eyelids refuse to open. Can teeth hurt?

He searches his memory for some clue as to what's happening. Everything is a jumble of shifting, churning images. Ghouls take center stage along with a Lich and a bonfire and a ritual that has to be stopped. Among the confusing flashbacks is the nightmarish memory of a horrifying trade or a deal that never should have been made. It's disturbing enough to have Sam actively seeking out the empathic connection with his brother; something that is normally as automatic as breathing.

But what he gets from his brother is a muted, distorted _fear_ combined with worry and a strange underlying mixture of impatient anticipation, like Dean is waiting for something. Waiting for what?

He recognizes the quality of his brother's emotions if not the exact meaning and it's enough to make him pry his uncooperative eyes open. The only time Dean's emotions feel muted is when his brother is trying to block him for some reason. Either that or he's zoned out, to use Dean's own description for his unreliable and unpredictable trances.

Sam's not sure which is worse. So many times Dean's trances leave him completely out of it, so far gone that he can do nothing at all to defend himself.

His eyes open grudgingly and at first he's relieved to see his brother nearby and on his feet.

Then Sam gets a better look at him.

Dean, the short hair at the back of his neck made spiky with sweat, is facing the blazing bonfire, his back to Sam. Only a couple feet separate him from the base of the pyre where flames writhe and twist together like a nest of agitated vipers fighting for dominance. Scorching heat reaches Sam even though he's a yard or two from the fire and sheltered by Dean's legs.

On one side of his brother is the flat-topped stone. On the other side the Lich hovers, clasping its hands together as if in prayer, chanting in blended harmony with the snapping and hissing of the fire.

Sam tests the binding link he shares with Dean for the barriers and defensive walls his brother occasionally tries to put up between them. Finding none, he sends an all-encompassing, inquisitive probe. _What are you doing? Are you okay? What's happening?_

He gets no real reply in response, only a dreamy fluttering of emotions as though Dean is trying to mentally swat away a bothersome pest, as though he needs every bit of his energy and control to complete the task he's working on and can't spare a drop for anything else.

Sam doesn't need to see the expression on his brother's face to know Dean is sporting the same slack features and dull eyes that characterize his trances.

Dean is way too close to the fire and the Lich is a menacing specter hovering within striking distance and now Sam remembers what the Lich wants Dean to do. His mouth goes completely dry as the Lich's words from earlier replay in his head. _But to find someone who would truly be willing to forfeit their life…to walk of their own accord into a raging bonfire to be consumed by the flames in order to save another person, for example…well, that kind of love is very rare indeed._

Sam needs to stop his brother before he does something monumentally stupid and rash and irreversible and horrifying. And insanely brave. And so…so Dean.

The ghouls are clustered together on the opposite side of the fire, smearing some kind of goo on their faces in what must be part of the ritual and the Lich seems to be too busy with its spell and his brother to worry about what Sam is doing. They probably all think he's about as threatening as a newborn kitten since the Lich zapped him with its full power.

They're right.

His arms and legs feel like they're made out of water. He can barely move them. It's no use. Any kind of physical act of heroism is out of the question. No matter how much he wants to jump up and start throwing punches, there's simply no way he's going to be able to get Dean away from the Lich.

Every protective impulse he has is screaming at him to 'do something!' Sam considers yelling at the Lich to 'back off' and 'get away from my brother, you moldering corpse,' but bringing attention to himself before he's ready to follow it up with anything real is just plain dumb. So he's going to have to come up with something else, something that doesn't rely on physical strength.

Mentally grasping the invisible yet impervious strand of their connection, Sam tries to guide and pull Dean out of the trance much like he did the last time they were in the forest together. Sam needs to get his brother to stop this ridiculous act of self-sacrifice or whatever else he thinks he's doing and to do that Sam needs to get Dean to acknowledge him. But his brother's gone too deep and every time Sam believes he's close enough to get Dean back, he slips further away.

Dean takes a faltering half-step closer to the blaze, shoulders tensing on an inhale and shuddering on a smoke-choked exhale.

"Yesssss." Drawing the word out in apparent ecstasy, the Lich stops chanting long enough to voice its approval of the boy's progress closer to his destination and his death.

It's not working. Inside his head, Sam screams _STOP_ and hurls a barrage of every negative and angry emotion he can at his brother.

Instead of responding to Sam's mental assault, Dean shuffles forward another inch or two and Sam can smell singed hair. His brother is so close to the fire now that the updraft of hot air is fanning his bangs away from his face.

Heart hammering a staccato beat in his chest, Sam abruptly changes tactics, feeding his brother a steady stream of affection while desperately clinging to their binding connection.

Dean shudders and Sam can feel the trance lifting; he can feel Dean's emotions get stronger, closer to the surface. He can feel his brother's fear and his sadness and his overwhelming determination like a sharp slap to the face.

And then Dean takes another stumbling step forward.

Sam braces himself for a superhuman effort. Mind over matter, the force of his will over the reality of his physical limitations. He won't let Dean do this.

Fueled by devoted willpower, Sam surges up and grabs the collar of his brother's coat, tugging him away from the fire.

A shot rings out and one of the ghouls drops face down in a heap.

Timing is everything in a hunter's world and his dad has always had impeccable timing.

The unholy chanting stops as the Lich reaches out for his escaping sacrifice but is temporarily distracted by the sounds of gunfire. "No, they can't get through my shield," it mutters in frustrated disbelief.

Dean lurches to the side toward the stone table and snatches the clunky goblet, dumping the contents, a dark blue crystal, onto the table. He dodges the Lich's attempt to grab him and then slams the heavy base of the goblet down on the crystal.

The crystal shatters and the Lich shrieks.

The shards of broken gem lying on the stone altar are all that's left of the Lich's sapphire. The mystical crystal giving the Lich its power and keeping it alive has been destroyed. And now the Lich is vulnerable.

While the monster wails, clutching the sides of its cadaverous head with both hands, thick claw-like nails digging into its leathery skin, Sam launches a clumsy tackle, colliding into the Lich's midsection with one broad shoulder.

Mouth open wide in a grotesque rictus, the Lich rebounds into the bonfire where its dusty shroud immediately catches fire. The unmistakable sound of a shotgun blast drowns out all other noise and the impact of the shells fling the Lich further into the blaze, its chest riddled with a spray of shrapnel, rock salt if Sam has to take a guess.

The entire clearing explodes into simultaneous action. Hunters emerge from the tree line on all sides, guns blasting, and the ghouls fall one by one, many of them missing huge chunks of their skulls. The chaos continues until the last ghoul is dead. It's over within minutes and when Sam turns back to look into the bonfire, there's nothing left of the Lich but a grimy ash floating away on the night air.

It's ten minutes after midnight.

Dean is still standing next to the rock. He has his hands out in front of him and he's staring at the backs of them with an expression of detached amazement. The bright red color of his face is worrisome and Sam suspects that even without touching the fire directly, his brother has some nasty burns on any exposed skin.

"Hey kiddo, you all right?" Sam asks softly, not wanting to spook his brother more than he already appears to be.

Dean's eyes are wide as he turns his gaze slowly to Sam. "Hurts," he whispers, blinks once, and topples heavily to the ground.

Sam curses and does the only thing he can to get to his brother, he crawls.

Dad gets there first, rolls Dean onto his back, and freezes, hands motionless mere inches from the boy's body as though he's afraid to touch.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Sam asks, an unwanted quiver in his voice, and when his dad doesn't answer right away, "Is he all right?" A little more forcefully.

Their dad's lips thin as he presses them together. Gingerly picking up one of Dean's hands by the cuff of his coat, he angles it so Sam can see the back. The skin there is just as red as the skin on his face, but there are also streaks of black ash and angry, puffy welts covering the entire surface; his fingers, his knuckles…everywhere. "Heat blisters." John growls and for some reason Sam feels like it's an accusation.

Dean whimpers and makes a feeble attempt to bat his father's hand away, inhaling sharply when their fingers accidentally brush together.

"Easy Dean, easy." Sam murmurs.

Gage, his dreadlocks flapping around his shoulders and back, comes running up to where Sam and John are huddled over Dean. Taking one look at the boy, he asks, "What can I do to help?"

"First aid kit, one with burn ointment and bandages. Pain meds." John's words are clipped and gruff. "Bobby probably has one in his car. Or maybe Brian. Hurry."

Nodding quickly, Gage takes off at a dead run back toward the trail that leads to the cars.

Despite his heavy coat, Dean shivers and John removes his own coat to wrap it around his son's legs.

Dean looks up at their dad with pain-filled eyes. "Are you mad at me?"

John sighs. "I'm not mad at you Dean, but what you did was stupid and reckless. I don't even know how-"

Their father is working up to a full-on drill sergeant type rant and Dean doesn't need that right now so Sam interrupts him, cautioning, "John, save it."

Surprisingly, the hunter raises an eyebrow at the warning, but when he looks down at his injured son, his eyes soften. "No, I'm not mad."

Sam knows Dean has got to be in agony and his own muscles are still spasming painfully. What they need is something to take their minds off everything until Gage gets back with the first aid kit. Flopping onto his back next to his brother, he says, "Hey Dean, how about next Halloween we skip the bonfire and go trick or treating instead?"

John huffs a quiet laugh and Sam feels his brother scoot a little closer to him until their shoulders are touching. He takes that as an invitation to go on. "So here's how it'll go – I'll be Batman and you can dress up as Robin. Sound good?"

"I'm Batman." Dean disagrees in a soft, breathy voice.

"Fine, you can be Batman. But I'm not gonna be Robin either 'cause a robin is a bird and it's not even a cool bird. It's a lame bird. I'll be Hawkman. Hawkman is totally cool."

"Yeah, he is."

Sam keeps up the light banter until Gage returns, a large white box in his arms.

John takes control of the box, quickly locating an analgesic cream that says it can be used on burns.

Sam sits up, gets the boy to dry swallow an adult dose of extra-strength pain relievers, swallows a small handful of the pills himself and tries to ignore the moans that escape Dean's clenched teeth as their dad slathers the ointment over his hands and face. Once each hand has been completely coated, they wrap it in so many bandages that the poor kid could pass as the lead in a B-grade horror movie.

As soon as they're done, Bobby approaches the three Winchesters, an apologetic look on his face, "John, I'm sorry, but we've got to be ready to move out in fifteen minutes. Stan has gone to call for medical help for those people. Some of them are way beyond any help I can give'em and I don't think any of us wants to be hereabouts when the authorities show."

John grunts at Bobby and then turns an assessing look on Sam. "I can carry Dean out of here, no problem. You're a different story though, sasquatch."

Sam climbs stiffly to his feet in response which earns him the 'that's the way to suck it up, son' smile from his father.

"We'll be ready." John tells Bobby.

The seasoned hunter starts pocketing the strange items still sitting on the makeshift altar where the Lich had left them. "These need to be catalogued and disposed of. Make sure they can't hurt anyone," Bobby mutters, mostly to himself. Once all the possibly harmful, magical relics including the chalice have been stashed away, he puts a gentle hand on Sam's shoulder. "You okay, son?"

The lump that suddenly appears in his throat makes it hard to swallow, but Sam tries to smile at his surrogate uncle anyway, nodding jerkily.

Bobby gives him one last pat before jogging off to see what else needs to be done.

Glancing around, Sam realizes that while he and John had been tending to Dean, the other hunters had been busy. Clean up is well under way. The dead ghouls, many of whom would have raised unanswerable questions from local law enforcement by virtue of being exact copies of the captured townspeople, have all been carted off somewhere. The captives have all been untied and are being taken care of by Brian and Kevin.

Although most of the former captives are in no shape to do much moving around, one of the men walks unsteadily over to Brian, who clasps him warmly on the shoulder as if they're old friends. They're too far away for Sam to hear their conversation, but he sees Brian point in his general direction and then the man is shuffling toward them, his gaze firmly anchored on John.

Extending his hand, the man shakes first John's hand, then Sam's, and tips an imaginary hat at Dean before turning again to face John squarely. The man is haggard looking with deep bruising on his cheekbones, especially under his eyes, and the tell-tale rusty-red of dried blood matted in his dark blond hair. His grip is surprisingly strong considering his appearance. "I'm Bill…Bill Harvelle."

"The other captured hunter." John inclines his head. "Glad to see you made it, Bill. We were hoping to get to you in time. I'm John and this is my brother, Sam, and my son, Dean." He gestures to each of them in turn.

"I saw what that boy of yours did. I saw the whole thing." Bill studies Dean intently for a moment, shakes his head and whispers solemnly, "Remarkable."

Sam has to agree, although sometimes he fervently wishes Dean wasn't so 'remarkable'.

Giving a final shake of his head, Bill turns his attention back to John. "You saved my life, you and yours. I'm in your debt. If there's ever anything I can do, anything at all, a case you need help working or a hunting partner for a job, I'm your man. You just give me a shout and I'll be there. I usually work alone, but I'd be willing to make an exception here and there."

John shrugs. "It never hurts to have another contact in our business."

"Well, you should probably get going. I'm going to stick around here at least until the EMT's show up. Getting everything straightened out and making sure none of these people get thrown into the loony bin for telling the police what they saw happen here is going to be a full time job for a while." Bill sighs wistfully.

"You say that like a man who has somewhere he'd rather be." John cocks his head, a slight grin visible through the course hairs of his beard.

Bill laughs, but it sounds thin and worn. "Yeah, I got a wife and a munchkin of my own waiting for me back home. I suspect they might be wondering where I am right about now."

"Your wife's been in contact with Pastor Jim. That's how we knew you were probably out here." Sam pipes up. "You'll want to give her a call as soon as you get to a phone. She's been worried." He knows he's stating the obvious. Still, it seems important enough to say out loud.

"I'll walk you back to the others and then we'll be on our way." John offers, getting an arm under Bill's shoulder because it's pretty obvious the man is at the end of his strength. "Be right back." He says as the two hunters walk off together, leaving Sam alone with his brother.

Dean's eyes are already starting to slip shut and Sam can't help but smile down at him fondly. "Hey kiddo, before you fall asleep there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Hmmm." The boy hums and his eyes return to half-mast, the pain meds hitting him good and strong.

Taking a deep breath, Sam lowers his voice. "You were just stalling, right? Waiting for dad? You wouldn't really have walked into that bonfire…would you?" The real question is right on the tip of his tongue. _You weren't really going to die for me, were you?_

Dean just quirks the ghost of his cocky one-sided smile and tilts his head before closing his eyes.

To be continued.

**A/N: There is a fair bit about hypnotic trances in this story. I read a book about hypnosis and watched a LOT of videos about hypnosis prior to writing the last couple of chapters. Hypnosis intrigues me; I've learned that there are classes designed to teach medical professionals, nurses mostly, to use hypnotic trances to help their patients manage pain. I even looked into taking some self-hypnosis classes myself but they were too expensive at $100 per session. If you are at all interested, there is a great YouTube video showing an instructor hypnotizing one of his students at http(colon)/(forward slash)www(dot)youtube(dot)com/watch?v=4o-EPYFiMs&feature=relmfu. The title of this chapter comes from that video. There's a better link to it over at my LJ post.**


	20. The Train Whistle

**Disclaimer: Supernatural doesn't belong to me except for in my mind where schmoop abounds.**

**A/N: As this story comes to an end I'd like to take a moment to thank my reviewers. Many of your comments have impacted this story. In fact, several of your comments played large roles in the way this last chapter played out. Thank you so much for your support and interest in this work of fiction. I appreciate you more than you will ever know.**

**Bonded and Broken**

**By Disneymagic**

**Chapter 20 The Train Whistle**

He's being carried. Dean can tell he's being carried by the way he feels all weightless and floaty yet anchored at the same time. There's a slight jostling as though the surface he's being carried over is rough and uneven. His cheek is mashed against soft, well-worn leather. The comfortingly familiar smells of leather and gun oil are strong as is the overriding smell of wood smoke.

His nose twitches and he wants to rub it, but his hands are too clumsy and strangely heavy and it's just not worth the effort it would take to lift them so he sighs sleepily, rubbing his nose into the leather his head is resting against.

Scraps of conversation drift from above and around him. Male voices, but that's nothing new. There haven't been many female voices in his life for some time now.

"Lean on me, Sam. That's it. You're doing fine."

"…cut it a little close, doncha think?"

"Yeah well, the force field was stronger than we bargained for. Took us two tries…"

"What happened to you two anyway? Those burns…I've had steaks less well done than your nephew."

"Jeez Dustin. Tact – get some."

"What? It's true."

The wind blows and Dean shivers. Whoever is carrying him tightens their grip. It feels kinda nice. Safe.

His face is numb and he's really tired.

Really, really tired…

SNSNSNSNSNSNSNSN

"Wake up, kiddo. We're here."

Dean blinks a couple times, tries to rub the crusty sleep from his eyes and frowns when his brother catches his hand by the sleeve on its way to his face.

"Nuh uh, you're not going to be able to touch anything for a while."

"Why? Where are we?" The blurry image that is his brother begins to come into focus and Dean is surprised to see how worn out Sam looks.

"Dad seems to think we need a little R&R and Steve has generously volunteered his place."

"We're at Steve's?" Dean asks, confused and wishing Sam would talk slower or something because nothing is making much sense.

"Yeah, you slept through the whole thing, the trek through the forest back to the cars, grabbing our stuff from the motel, transferring into Steve's car and the entire drive to his house." Sam gestures out the window and Dean realizes he's lying in the back seat of Steve's car with his head in his brother's lap.

Okay, that's embarrassing.

Shuffling his feet down to the floorboard, he quickly gets both his hands underneath himself so he can push off Sam's lap. The pain is immediate and fierce and steals the air from his lungs. He snatches his hands protectively to his chest. The skin from his wrists to the tips of his fingers feels like it's been charred and flame broiled. In spite of the pure white gauze wrapped thickly around his hands he swears the flames are still searing his flesh. Gasping for breath, he hunches forward and squeezes his eyes shut.

"Oh God, Dean. I'm so sorry. I know that hurts." Sam places one large hand on his back and just moves the thumb back and forth until the pain eases off a little and Dean can breathe normally again. "Didn't you hear me say you wouldn't be able to touch anything for a while?" Sam asks softly.

Dean thinks he might remember Sam saying something like that, but it's easier to go with 'no' for now so he shakes his head and gives his brother a miserable little shrug.

"Lesson learned the hard way then, huh?" Sam's smile is more of a grimace as he reaches for the handle, opens the door, and helps Dean out of the car.

Steve flings the door of his house wide before they even get the chance to knock, an eager puppy dog look on his face. "Oh good, I was just coming out to see how you were doing. I've already brought your things in from the car and put them in the guest room."

"It's really nice of you to let us stay with you, Steve. After everything you've already done this is just…" Sam trails off and Dean knows his brother is as worn out and overwhelmed as he looks.

"Don't mention it. You know I wanted to do it. And besides, I like having you both here." Steve bustles them into the living room, getting them settled on the comfy couch that Dean remembers from their last visit here. "Now you guys take it easy and I'll bring you something to eat."

As Steve heads into the kitchen, Dean leans into his brother and asks, "Why did Dad send us with Steve? Why didn't he take us home?" It's not that their dad has never left them with other people before. He has. Lots of times. Most of the time when he goes off to hunt something he gives them the money he thinks they'll need for groceries while he's gone and gives them strict orders to take care of each other. But there have also been plenty of times when they've stayed with Uncle Bobby and even a few times when they've stayed with a babysitter. Of course, it's been a while since they've needed a babysitter and with Sam being a grownup – for right now anyway – there's really no point. So this is different. It feels weird.

Sam scrubs a hand down his face before relaxing into the couch cushions and sighing heavily. "It might have been all the begging and pleading."

"When has Dad ever caved to begging and pleading?" Dean raises his eyebrows in disbelief. The movement causes the skin on his face to tighten and stretch painfully as though he has a really nasty sunburn, so he quickly lowers them and vows not to look in a mirror any time soon. "And who was doing the begging?"

"Steve mostly." Sam chuckles, a low, quiet sound of amusement that only lasts a second. "When he found out about Dad's plans to drag us to Colorado to track down some information on the spell he and Bobby think the Lich was trying to invoke, Steve nearly fell to his knees, begging Dad to let him take us back here. I didn't think Dad was going to go for it, but then Bobby argued that we needed some down time and Dad finally agreed."

Dean thinks about this for a while, careful not to move his hands from where they're resting lightly on his thighs even though they itch and sting, making him jittery. "Steve is a good friend."

"He's a very good friend," Sam says, meeting Dean's gaze intently like he's searching for something. "I think you remind him of his son, Matt."

Dean nodes because yeah, he thinks that's probably true. "Matt died when he was just a little older than me and now Steve doesn't have anyone."

"I know," Sam says solemnly. "But now he has us."

"I'm glad we met him."

"Me too."

When Steve comes back he has a tray stacked high with hot dogs and chips and cans of soda. "It's the best I can do on short notice. Anyway, I figure you guys are probably hungry enough to eat whatever I put in front of you at this point since someone slept through breakfast and lunch." He smiles at Dean and puts the tray on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Looking at the food and then down at his hands, Dean groans, long and loud. His stomach is so empty he thinks he could eat everything on the tray all by himself. There's just one problem. Even if his hands didn't hurt so much, he still wouldn't be able to pick anything up with the thick bandages making his hands about as useful as horses' hooves.

"Don't worry, kiddo." Sam shoots him a sympathetic grin. "I've gotcha covered."

Having his brother feed him is humiliating. Maybe not as bad as being carried around like a preschooler when his knee had been dislocated. Still, it's pretty bad.

The embarrassment doesn't stop him from taking huge bites of hotdog and bun drenched in ketchup and mustard every time Sam holds it up to his mouth though. It's not like he can help himself. He's starving.

After they've all eaten their fill, Steve turns on the TV and they watch sitcoms until Sam announces it's time for bed.

"I slept all day, Sam. I don't wanna go to bed." Dean sits up from his slouch against the sofa cushions.

His brother simply cocks his head to the side. "If you're not sleepy why do I keep catching you with your eyes closed?"

Opening his eyes as wide as they'll go, Dean shrugs like he has no idea what Sam could possibly be talking about.

Despite his protests, Sam shoos him off to bed.

Dean doesn't remember anything past lying down in the large, springy bed with the fluffy pillows and the warm blankets piled high on top of him.

Sunlight streaming through the window wakes him up in the morning and the first thing he sees is his brother, pulling the homey curtains aside and grinning at him mischievously.

"Up and at'em, sleepyhead, unless you want to sleep another day away." Sam's cheerful greeting catches him by surprise and he takes his time sitting up to study his brother's face.

Sam looks much better than he did yesterday. The tiny curl of a frown which hasn't left Sam's forehead in days is nowhere to be seen and the dimples are out in full force. The emotions Dean can feel when he opens himself up to their bond are happy and carefree in a way they rarely are when Sam is an adult with the burden of responsibility firmly on his shoulders. There must be something about being at Steve's house, giving in to Steve's need to fuss over them, which agrees with Sam. Or maybe it's just the fact that he can finally let his guard down. Not all the way. But a little bit.

"What are we gonna do today?" Dean asks around a yawn, stretching his arms over his head and wincing at the tug of gauze around his burned wrists.

"First thing we're going to do is change those bandages." Sam points to Dean's hands.

Changing the bandages doesn't sound like fun and Dean would rather do just about anything else so he looks at his brother hopefully and says, "Breakfast first?"

"Breakfast after." Sam uses his 'I'm not kidding around' voice, but he softens it with a smile on his way out to find Steve's first aid kit.

The backs of his hands are revealed in tiny increments as Sam methodically removes the old bandages strip by strip. Dean finds that as much as he wants to look away, he can't. He's caught between fascination and repulsion. Many of the blisters have broken open, oozing blood and pus, making his hands look like they've been through a meat grinder. It's disgusting.

He clamps his mouth shut to trap the strangled, gagging noise in his throat where no one can hear it.

"All right, I'm just going to coat your hands with anti-bacterial spray and put some more burn cream on them before I re-wrap them." Sam starts talking, his tone calm and mellow like sun-warmed honey.

Breathing deeply through his nose, Dean latches onto his brother's voice, grateful for the distraction. The words aren't important at all. Sam could be speaking a foreign language for all it matters.

His brother keeps talking until he's gently patting the last piece of gauze into place. "There. Done."

Dean glances up in time to see Sam wipe a shaky hand over his eyes.

That won't do. Dean thinks quickly then grins and says, "Now I'm really hungry. What's for breakfast?"

The comical expression of amazed disgust and the dubious head shake he gets in return are exactly what Dean was hoping for. The short bark of laughter is icing on the cake.

For breakfast, Steve makes French toast with cinnamon and powdered sugar sprinkled on top. The maple syrup is warm and Dean suffers through his brother feeding him with a huge smile on his face.

"This is so good," he mumbles through a delicious mouthful.

"Dude. Chew first, talk later." Sam gives him a good-natured swat on the back of his head.

In response, Dean munches loudly, mouth wide open while he makes enthusiastic eating noises.

Steve snickers.

Sam grumbles, "Don't encourage him." The finger he points at Steve trembles with barely suppressed laughter as do his shoulders.

It's turning out to be a good morning.

"I called into the station earlier to let them know I'd be in to work later today," Steve says once they're done eating and Sam is rinsing dishes to be placed into the dishwasher while Dean practices picking up the salt shaker between his elbows, just to have something to do.

"Bet they'll be glad to have you back." Sam shuts off the water faucet, turns around and leans against the sink, arms crossed over his chest.

"Yeah, I talked to Tim. He sounded pretty happy. He asked about you guys."

"Yeah?" Sam asks, sounding both surprised and pleased.

Dean looks up from the salt shaker squeezed at the tips of his elbows.

Making an affirmative, thoughtful sound, Steve answers, "We thought you guys might want to come to the station with me. Take a look at the engines and maybe get around to pulling one of the train whistles since you sort of missed out on that last time you were there." He scratches the top of his bald head, looking hopeful and slightly awkward, as if he doesn't think they'll want to come.

The train ride and the train station make up some of Dean's best memories. Well…except for when the ghouls found them there. But other than that, the train station had been awesome. "Can we go, Sam?" He asks, so excited that the salt shaker slips from between his elbows, clattering to the kitchen table, spraying salt in a wide arc.

"Of course we can go. We're definitely going. Now stop making a mess and go to the bathroom. I'll help you brush your teeth before we leave." Sam smiles at him, all teeth and dimples.

Brat.

Dean sticks his tongue out at his brother. Not being able to use his hands sucks.

SNSNSNSNSNSNSN

Tim sees them and rushes over as soon as they walk into the station terminal. "Dean, you're walking!" the friendly shipping coordinator shouts, his wide smile quickly becoming a frown when his gaze takes in Dean's bandaged hands. "And now what's happened to your hands?"

Shuffling his feet self-consciously and trying to sound casual, Dean gives an off-handed shrug. "I burned them on a hot pan." He likes Tim a lot, but there's no telling how the man will react to stories of ghouls and human sacrifices. Best to keep the explanation simple like his dad taught him.

"He was trying to help me cook dinner," Sam says, stepping forward and placing a protective hand on the nape of Dean's neck while holding the other out to shake Tim's. "Good to see you again, Tim."

"Sam, glad you guys came out to visit us." Tim is kind enough not to dwell on Dean's supposed mishap any longer. The laugh lines in the corners of his eyes crinkle as he turns to his co-worker and good friend, Steve. "I see you finally decided to grace us with your presence. Did you enjoy your vacation?"

Steve's laugh is strained and Dean wonders if Tim can hear the falseness of it the way he can. "I don't know if I'd call it a vacation exactly. I'm glad I went though." The look the railroad worker shares with Dean is heavy with unspoken meaning.

Tim clears his throat and swallows, looks like he's going to ask another question and then rubs his hands together in anticipation instead, asking in an overly merry voice, "So, are you ready to take a tour of the locomotives in the train yard?"

"You bet!" Dean and Sam answer together, anxious to move away from dangerous topics and have some fun.

They take the same winding pathway between the train tracks as last time. The only difference is that now Dean is able to walk on his own, without being pushed in the improvised wheelchair otherwise known as a rolling desk chair from Tim's dusty office in the warehouse.

Dean looks up at the coal cars, freight cars, and boxcars towering above him on either side. The diesel fuel smell is thick in what is beginning to feel like a very confined space in between the gigantic trains. He knows it's childish and stupid. All the same, a prickle of uneasy suspense runs down his spine at the thought of ghouls jumping out at them from inside one of the boxcars. Like last time.

Everyone is quiet, like they're all thinking the same thing, like they're all anticipating another attack. The only sound is the scuffing of work boots and sneakers on the concrete path, the occasional clatter of a pebble being kicked out of the way.

Before he can get too freaked out, Sam brushes up against his side, a subtle reminder that he's not alone.

They turn a corner around the last railcar on the track and all thoughts of ghouls are banished by the sight of five gleaming train engines, each one more impressive than the last. There's a sleek, silver engine that reminds him more of a space shuttle than a real train locomotive. Another is dark green with yellow stripes pained along its sides. There's even an old steam engine with a smokestack and everything.

"That's Old Sparky." Tim says with a chuckle when he notices which engine has captured Dean's attention. "He doesn't get much use anymore. The diesel engines have made him obsolete. We just keep him around for the nostalgia value."

"Can I see the inside?" Dean asks, excitement making him hop from one foot to the other.

Steve beams at him. "That's what we're here for."

Old Sparky's whistle doesn't work unless the fires are stoked and that's not going to happen today. Dean doesn't mind. He climbs inside with a little help, sits in the engineer's seat and looks at all the levers, imagining what it would be like to control something so big. Sam climbs in beside him and ruffles his hair.

It's so rare they get a day like this, a day of fun with no training and no worries. Sam's happiness bounces through their connection, feeding off Dean's and multiplying.

Next they visit one of the diesel engines. Inside are buttons and switches instead of levers. Tim points to a large red button, saying, "That's the whistle," right before his walkie talkie squawks with a message from one of the workers in the warehouse asking for his help.

"I've got to get back to work, but you guys stay out here as long as you want. Steve can continue the tour." Tim smiles wistfully like he really wants to stay with them then turns to leave, waving over his shoulder.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Steve asks. "Press the whistle."

Making sure to keep his hand flat, Dean puts his bandaged palm on the button and presses down.

The sound the train makes is high-pitched and piercing. It's the most aggressive, rebellious sound he's ever heard. It commands attention, making his skin vibrate. It makes him feel totally alive, powerful. He loves it.

"Do it again, Dean."

The voice is Sam's, but there's something different about it, something strange, something…younger.

Dean nearly gives himself whiplash by jerking his head around to stare at his brother, who is sitting next to him in the cab of the train engine. Sam's face is flushed with excitement.

And it's getting smaller.

His long, chocolate brown hair is getting shorter and curlier, his cheeks are getting plumper, and he's shrinking. With every second that passes, he loses weight, loses height, loses muscle. His long, strong fingers become tiny and pudgy. It doesn't take long, a minute tops, before six year old Sammy is staring back at him, slanted, hazel eyes wide.

This isn't the first time Dean has seen his brother's transformation from adult to child or vice versa. It still makes for a pretty spectacular show though.

"Dean!" Sammy squeals and throws himself out of his seat and onto Dean's.

Reflexively holding his hands up out of the way, Dean allows his _little_ brother to scramble and squirm until he's planted firmly on Dean's lap, skinny arms wrapped around his chest, apparently trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs.

He relaxes into the hug and, since he can't use his hands, buries his face in Sammy's mop of hair at the top of his head. "I missed you, squirt." It strikes Dean as sort of strange how his eyes are stinging and his breath is coming in unsteady gulps.

"But Dean, I was with you the whole time." Sammy's upturned face is puzzled, his eyebrows bunched together in a funny little knot.

Whereas adult Sam might understand the way he and child Sammy almost become two different and distinct people in Dean's mind, Dean doesn't think this pint-sized version of Sammy will get it, so he just smiles at his kid brother and says, "Yeah, you're right, you were with me the whole time."

The sound of a work boot shifting on the iron steps leading to the engine cab causes Dean to turn to see Steve, gaping at him and the small boy in his lap. The railroad man has been standing there throughout Sam's transformation, Dean realizes. He has seen everything.

Dean puts his arms around Sammy and pulls his brother in as close as he can without using his hands. But hiding Sam won't work. It's far too late for that. There's no way out of this one. He's going to have to tell their friend the truth and hope for the best.

Releasing his tight hold on his brother, he gazes steadily at Steve. "Ummm, there's something we haven't been straight with you about." he confesses. "Sammy isn't my uncle…he's my little brother."

"Y-your…brother?"

The burly railway worker looks like he's about to fall over if Dean doesn't say something to make this all right so he quickly tries to explain. "It's okay. Sammy made a wish to be a grown up whenever I needed help."

Peering out from over Dean's arm, Sammy helpfully adds, "Yeah, and it came true."

"It-it came true?" Steve repeats, looking more confused than ever.

"Well, the gypsy gave me the wish. She was a good gypsy, but then the Black Imp came to take the wish back. He wasn't nice at all." Sammy babbles away happily, completely unaware that Steve is grasping the sides of the cab's doorframe in a white-knuckled grip. Then he twists on Dean's lap, probably trying to find a more comfortable position where he can get a better view of Steve, and grinds his elbow into Dean's stomach.

"Ow Sammy, how many times do I have to tell you – your elbows are sharp." Dean grumbles, because really, that's like the one thousandth time.

"Sorry Dean. I'm sorry." Sammy is quick to apologize before continuing on with his tale.

Dean is content to sit back and watch his brother's familiar child-like gestures as he talks, the way he covers his eyes with his pudgy little hands to indicate the darkness caused by the Black Imp and the way he bounces in place as though he can't contain his excitement.

He really has missed this.

By the time Sammy comes to a rambling end, Steve no longer looks like he's ready to either fall down or run from them screaming. He just rubs the top of his bald head and mutters, "I can't believe the two of you defeated the Lich…basically by yourselves. I mean look at you. You're just _babies_."

Dean bristles at that, but then he feels Sammy stiffen and looks down to see his little brother's bottom lip trembling. "What's the matter, squirt?"

One fat teardrop rolls down the small boy's cheek. "That skeleton man was really bad, wasn't he Dean?"

Nodding, Dean presses his forehead against Sammy's wishing his brother didn't have to remember what had happened while he was a grown up. "He was bad, but you were very brave."

"And then y-you tried to leave me. In the woods with the bad people, you tried to go away forever, didn't you? You tried to make yourself burn all up. You kept walking into the fire and you wouldn't stop." Sammy is crying in earnest now, tear after tear falling from wet lashes, and it feels like someone is ripping Dean's chest open.

That's not what happened. He'd never meant to go away forever. He hadn't thought about it that way.

"I didn't want to walk into the fire, Sammy. I didn't." Dean shakes his head.

Sammy sniffles. "If you go away I won't have anyone. I'll be all alone."

"You won't be alone. You'll have Dad and Uncle Bobby and a whole lot of other people. If I ever have to go away, they'll look after you and you'll be just fine. I promise." One thing Dean has always been sure of is that Sammy could get along without him. His kid brother is smart and everybody loves him; he has no trouble making friends. All anybody ever has to do is get one look at that baby face and they fall all over themselves to help him.

A chubby fist lands in the middle of Dean's chest and Sammy is angry now, furious. "I don't want a whole lot of other people to look after me. I want you. I just want you."

"Okay Sammy, okay." Dean really wants off the emotional rollercoaster and he'll agree to just about anything at this point.

Maybe, he has a few things to think over. Maybe

Sammy crashes into him, smashes his head into the crook of Dean's neck, curls his fingers into Dean's shirt and wipes his snotty nose on Dean's shoulder.

"Everything's gonna be alright, Sammy." He whispers into his brother's ear.

He hopes they never have to go through something like this again, but deep in his heart he knows – if it ever comes down to it, if it means keeping his brother safe – he'll make the exact same choices.

He wouldn't change a thing.

The End.

**A/N: Thank you for reading. Now that it's over, I hope you'll leave a review. **


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